


One day a prince will come

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Anne is queen by birth, F/M, Milady isn't evil in this one, Mild emotional torture of Athos by Milady, Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: Queen Anne rules by right of birth. Widowed two years earlier, she wants a husband and more children.Cue dozens of noble suitors and a ring that must fit perfectly.Yes, it's kind of a Cinderella retelling, but twisted almost out of all recognition. I thought the men made a hash of things, and wanted to see how the women could do it better.Blame Thimblerig. God knows I do :) But I also thank her very much for encouragement and hand-holding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> If you want to know how Anne could be queen of France in her own right, you completely ignore her real genealogy, and posit a situation as happened with Mary, queen of Scots. Mary was born in Scotland, became queen at 6 days old, and went to France as a child to be betrothed to the heir of the French throne. WHen her husband died, she returned to Scotland to reign as queen there, marrying twice more before coming to a sticky end.
> 
> So for Scotland, read France, and for France, read Spain. Only Anne never married her betrothed, and returned to marry Louis, a man of noble birth with a lower claim to the throne than she. She had a son by him—Louis—but the elder Louis died shortly afterwards.
> 
> [Saint Petronilla](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Petronil) is the patron saint of the dauphins of France. The ring thing is completely made up.

Anne the Serene, queen of La Belle France and Mother of the Nation, sat cross-legged on a Turkish rug in her new pale blue silk gown trimmed with pearls, and grinned at Louis gleefully putting wooden balls into a small saucepan and tipping them out with a yell, each time looking up to his mother and her friend for approval.

Anne clapped, but Constance sighed. “He has some of the best toys money can buy, made by the finest craftsman in France, but this is what he wants to play with.” One of the balls rolled away and Constance picked it up. “I think the dogs have been at this one.”

“He did pinch them from Tulipe.” Constance hastily put the ball down and wiped her hands on her skirt. “It doesn’t matter where they came from. Look at him. He’s happy. Does it matter what he plays with?”

“No, not really. Are you going to have lunch with him?”

“I can’t. I’m meeting the cardinal, and then we have the council meeting about this stupid ring ceremony.”

“You don’t have to have one, your majesty. It was all your idea.”

“I know. But having gone to all this trouble and fuss, I have to go through it. And I do want more children.”

Her friend nodded. “I know.”

“Louis would love a sister, wouldn’t you, my pet?” Her son held his arms out and toddled over to her for a kiss and a hug.

“I think given the choice, he would rather have another spaniel.”

Anne laughed. “I’m sure. But a spaniel can’t wear the crown, and such good blood runs through my veins. I want to share it more than I have.”

“You know that Gaston says he intends to try.”

Anne politely hid her reaction. “Of course. All are welcome.” And if the ring chose _him_ , she would eat that saucepan full of balls, and then the saucepan afterwards. “I should go.  I’ll come to the nursery early to watch Marguerite bath him.”

“Of course. Say goodbye to your _maman_ , Louis.”

Her son stood, bowed with only a little wobble, and chirped in his high, clear voice, “Goodbye, your majesty.”

“Goodbye, my son,” she said. She stood up and patted his head, while smiling at Constance. “I’ll see you in council, dear.”

****************************

“It’ll be a cattle market,” d’Artagnan said, pouting at Aramis trying to measure him up for a respectable jerkin. “No one will pay the least attention to me.”

“You’re a handsome man with a good pedigree, and there are women to whom that is all that matters. Will you _stop_ wriggling, or I’ll stick a pin in you.”

D’Artagnan went still, although he stuck his tongue out. In the corner, watching the proceedings, Porthos smirked at the pair of them.

When Aramis had disarmed himself by setting down the pins and removing the pattern, d’Artagnan could safely speak. “How does this damn ring know who’d be a good husband? It’s a bit of metal.”

Aramis tsked. “A holy piece of metal, you heathen. The ring of blessed [Saint Petronilla](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Petronilla), the protectors of the rulers of France. The virgin martyr has chosen wisely for centuries. Are you going to question her wisdom now?”

“I suppose not, but it makes no sense. Why you all have to go with me? It’s only Paris. I’ve been there before.”

“When you were fourteen,” Aramis said. “And look what happened to you then.” Which was tactless of him, to say the least.

“I can’t lose my father twice,” d’Artagnan snapped back. “And it wasn’t my fault.”

“No one said it was,” Porthos said peaceably. “But the boss thinks this is a chance for you to find a good wife and meet people who could give you a job. He’s right.”

“But I don’t need three guards.”

“No, you need thirty.” Athos roused himself from his hungover sulk at the table. “ _I_ don’t want to go at all, but you don’t see me whining like a little boy about it. You need all of us. Get over it, and grow up.”

D’Artagnan’s pretend pout turned into a real one. Looking up and seeing his expression, Aramis smiled. “Don’t you remember that prophecy? That a Consort will come from this very estate?”

“What prophecy?” d’Artagnan asked suspiciously.

“Porthos, you remember? That _Gitane_ who came here to read our fortunes the year before the boss took this one in.”

D’Artagnan looked to see if the friends passed a signal between them, because they were notorious pranksters and quite shameless liars, but to his surprise, Porthos nodded, as did Athos. “Yeah, I do,” Porthos said. “But she also said Athos would be happy and I’d die rich, and I ain’t seen no sign of that.”

“She never said ‘when’, though,” Athos reminded him.  “For all we know the Consort could come from here in a hundred years’ time, I’ll be happy on my deathbed because I’m shot of this existence, and you’ll die after being hit on the head with a bag of gold.”

“Now that’s our Athos,” Aramis said. “Always the little ray of sunshine.”

D’Artagnan coughed out a laugh, which earned him a glower from Athos. “He’s right though. It doesn’t mean it means me.”

“It doesn’t mean it doesn’t either. Anyway, Porthos is looking for a wife—”

“Steady on. I never said ‘wife’. A bit of female company would be nice, is all.”

“—and I retain a meagre hope that Cupid’s bow might send an arrow through my heart for a woman who actually wants a former soldier and would-be priest with not a penny to bless himself with.”

The other three men in the room looked at each other and rolled their eyes in unison. “Yeah, you’re so unattractive to women, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said.

“Oh, I know they like to _look_ at me. But they don’t take me seriously. I’m just fun in bed,” he added with a sigh.

It was too much for Porthos who cackled and slapped his knee. “Listen to it. ‘Just fun in bed’. Oh, the poor cursed bastard.”

“Literally, on all three counts. No woman I love, loves me back. I am destined to always offer affection, and never receive it.”

D’Artagnan draped himself around Aramis’s shoulders and placed a sloppy kiss on the man’s forehead. “But, _cheri_ , you will always have me. I’d give my virginity to you for the asking.”

Aramis stared in open-mouthed shock. For a moment or two, all was still in the room. Then Porthos slapped his knee, and even Athos managed a grin. Aramis relaxed and smiled.

“Ah, d’Artagnan, a debaucher such as I would not take such a precious gift from one so young and fragrant.” Then he kissed d’Artagnan on the lips, and used his tongue, before d’Artagnan pushed him away with appropriate, but not excessive speed. “Ask me again when you are old, and you have been blessed with children. We can comfort each other while our wives are out making money.”

“Uh huh. Don’t think I won’t take you up on it.”

Porthos grunted. “Brat, he’s already thinking it’s the best offer he’s had in a year. You’ll have to beat him off with a stick.”

D’Artagnan feigned innocence. “I always use my hand. Am I doing it wrong?”

Athos stood and jammed his hat on his head. “Excuse me, _gentlemen_.” He stomped out and slammed the door.

“He’s just jealous you never kissed _him_ ,” Porthos said in a loud whisper. Aramis laughed, and d’Artagnan grinned at his own cleverness in cracking Athos’s iron control over his emotions.

Maybe Athos would find happiness in Paris. It was about as likely as d’Artagnan becoming Prince Consort.

****************************

“Now, whatever the result of the choosing ceremony, d’Artagnan, do yourself and your parents proud.”

“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan said as he knelt before de Tréville, and waited for the man to place his hands on his head in blessing, before standing.

His guardian turned to the older men who would accompany him. “You lot, stay out of trouble.”

Athos gave his boss an ironic salute, then turned to his companions. “Right, let’s go.”

He hated every aspect of this idea, and resented every inch of the journey before he’d made a step along it. Paris would be a heaving, crowded mess for at least three weeks, as every single, remotely good-looking single man—and plenty who were as ugly as de Tréville’s mule—with the smallest claim to noble rank descended with their supporters on the capital.

At least two hundred men would have to be vetted by members of the queen’s council to be allowed to participate in the picnics, conversations and general socialising, which would allow a further winnowing based on reports by the Queen’s trusted confidantes. The good-looking and well-washed, the least ugly men with either good manners and good tempers to recommend them, or those whose noble lineage through both parents automatically entitled them to consideration, would finally, on Midsummer’s Eve, be allowed to try on Saint Petronilla’s holy ring.

The one who could fit the ring on his finger without difficulty, and from whose finger it could not be removed by anyone but the queen, was allowed to ask for her hand in marriage.

Even after all that, if the queen just didn’t fancy the lucky sod, she could wait another couple of years, and do it all over again.

D’Artagnan would probably make it through the first round. He was pretty, from a good family of gentleman farmers, had lovely manners when he chose, and Aramis would have already bedded him if he hadn’t known what Athos would do to him. He might even make it all the way to the choosing ceremony. But more than that was ridiculous. De Tréville knew it as well as Athos.

But there were other women in Paris, and other opportunities. Athos was supposed to let d’Artagnan explore those while stopping him getting into any trouble that couldn’t be sorted out by a few polite words and hard glares. No suitor or supporter was allowed to bear a weapon within the camping grounds or the palace, without the express permission of her majesty or one of her councillors.

Oh, and alcohol was also banned. Athos would shoot himself if he couldn’t have a drink _and_ he had to deal with _her_.

God. For a sou he’d run back to the mansion now and beg to be relieved of this task, except he retained a few meagre threads of dignity.

He might have to pinch some of Aramis’s poppy milk to get through this.

****************************

The journey by cart only took them a day, and because they had left at dawn, they arrived at Paris before the gates shut. But they still had to wait at the end of a line of several dozen other small groups of men with their carts, horses, mules, and in one case, a goat.

“Now what?” d’Artagnan asked, fretting with the impatience of youth at the delay.

“Security,” Athos said. “No weapons, no wine, remember?”

“Anything you want to declare before we get to that stage, Athos?” Aramis asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes. I declare I have an overwhelming urge to kick you in the arse.”

Porthos chuckled. Aramis only grinned, as if Athos was joking. He bloody wasn’t.

The queue moved quickly and, thanks to the guards watching them, in an orderly fashion. Once they passed through the gates, they were directed across a courtyard until Athos and the others found themselves in front of a tent, and were told to enter one by one, the prospective suitor first. Athos took up the rear.

This was a mistake.

The city gate had closed behind them, so he was literally the last person to be admitted that evening. He walked into the tent, and nearly fainted with shock to see who was waiting.

“Anne.”

It was uncanny how much she looked the same after all this time, but also so very different from the beautiful young law clerk he had fallen in love with back in Pinon. She had always dressed very well but her clothes tonight were sumptuous. Layers of deep-dyed green and black silk, embroidered with gold thread and highlighted with gems. He had never bought her anything this fine. She looked like a queen herself.

Her expression wasn’t beautiful this evening. “That’s Mistress of the Guard to you, _monsieur le comte_.” Next to her, seated at the same small table, was a pretty woman with dark skin and lovely eyes. She didn’t smile at him at all. “Strip,” Anne snapped.

Thrown out of his shock and memories, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

The guards in the tent moved closer. “Strip. Remove your clothes down to the skin. I know your reputation, and I want to be sure her majesty will be safe.”

“For God’s sake. You know I would never hurt a woman, let alone the queen.” He stepped forward involuntarily, but found a sword point under his chin before he could make another move.

Anne regarded him coolly. “Strip, or be thrown out of the city. Your choice, Olivier.”

The woman next to Anne shifted uncomfortably, but there was no mercy in her eyes. Appealing to her would be useless.

He tugged at his scarf and took off his hat. This made the guard move back a little, although they scrutinised every move he made. Each item of clothing was taken from him and examined minutely. When his braies were halfway down his backside, Anne held up a hand. “Oh, keep those on. No one needs to see your inadequacies.”

He pulled them up and tied them again, sending daggers at her in his glare.

When Anne had given the other woman time to look over his body in intimate detail, she said, “Did I tell you about my former fiancé, Madame Boden? A _comte_ , not a bad catch as these things go, moderately entertaining in bed, though a perfect bore about the law.”

Athos clenched his jaw tight and said nothing.

“We were within days of the wedding, when his worthless brother tried to rape the wrong woman.” Madame Boden’s eyes widened in horror. “Only this woman fought back, and stabbed the wretch in self-defence. The man’s idiot wife tried to claim it was murder, but his victim’s screams were heard, he had been seen sneaking into the woman’s bedroom, and other women were prepared to testify what a pest he was. He got what he deserved. Even the _comte_ had to admit that, though it took him long enough, and even then he tried to argue that his brother needn’t have been stabbed.”

Madame Boden looked at Athos, and he managed to resist squirming only by a strength of will he didn’t know he possessed until then.

“l broke the engagement,” Anne continued with feigned insouciance. “One can’t marry a man who would try to excuse a rapist. Isn’t that right, Olivier?”

Athos continued to glare at her. She smiled sweetly.

“In this country, when the Mistress of the Guard asks you a question, you answer.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he spat out.

“Yes, Mistress, what?”

“You can’t marry a man willing to excuse a rapist.”

Her lip curled in disgust. “So, you can learn. It has been ten years. I suppose someone taught you a thing or two in that time. Take your clothes and get out. Guards, remove him.”

He supposed he could be grateful she didn’t send him out stark bollocks naked. He was ushered out quite quickly and with no particular consideration into the town square, clutching his shoes and clothes in front of him.

His friends stared. “What did you _do_?” d’Artagnan whispered in horror.

“Shut up and let me get dressed. Say one word about this, any of you, and I’ll pull your head off.”

****************************

“Was that really necessary, Clarisse?” Sylvie asked, mouth turned down in disapproval. She hadn’t enjoyed the man’s embarrassment or pain at all. She wasn’t that kind of woman.

“He ruined a perfectly good match—” Her breath caught. “By being an idiot over his brother.”

“You loved him.”

“Yes!” Her green eyes glittered with tears. “He should have thanked me for sparing his mother’s good name by stopping the little shit from raping anyone else.”

“ _You_ stopped him? His brother tried to—”

“Tried and _failed_ ,” she said, dashing the tears from her eyes, and sniffing mightily. “But Olivier was so much more worried about the family’s honour than my safety. I knew where I stood.”

“It must have been a difficult time for everyone. Even him.”

“I was to be his _wife_ , Sylvie. Mother of his children, his partner in life. And he doubted my word. _My_ word.” Sylvie touched her hand in sympathy. Clarisse looked down for a moment, her jaw tight. “We’re done, are we not?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Fetch the sedan,” Clarisse told a guard, who slipped out of the tent.

“I think I’ll go by horse,” Sylvie said. “We’ve been stuck in here for so long and I could do with stretching my legs.”

“Of course, dear. Do you want a guard?” she added with a raised eyebrow.

Sylvie grinned. “To carry my coin purse, perhaps? I have my pistol and knife.”

“Then you don’t need a guard.” Clarisse stood, and kissed her cheek. “See you at dinner.”

“Of course.”

She assembled her notes, and waited until she heard Clarisse’s sedan chair being lifted with small grunts from the men carrying it, before leaving the tent.

Outside, the man—Athos—was just pulling on his boots. The men with him all straightened and bowed as she approached, as did the man himself, although a little awkwardly with one boot on and one off. “Please, be at ease, gentlemen. I want a word with Athos in private.”

“Of course, madame. “The tall, handsome dark man jerked his thumb and the other three moved a good distance away.

Athos pulled on his other boot, then stood up again. He said nothing, but his eyes were stormy. “I wish to apologise on behalf of the Council for my colleague’s slight overzealousness,” she said.

He blinked and his expression became wary. “She had reason,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, but she didn’t need to express her feelings...that way. You really shouldn’t have questioned her honesty.”

“I didn’t, exactly. I...just had trouble believing he could be so...appalling. He was my only brother. My younger brother,” he added with a hitch in his voice. “It’s hard to think of him...doing that...when I used to pick him up when he fell and soothe his childish hurts.”

“I understand. But women must not be subjected to such actions. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course. I would defend any woman—even her—with my last breath. I made a terrible error of judgement then, and lost both my brother and the woman I once loved.” He gritted his teeth and bowed. “May I rejoin my friends?”

“You may. One more thing, though. When you’re allowed to enter the palace grounds, come find me. We can have tea together.” She smiled. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” he replied, looking a little stunned.

Good. That was just how she liked to leave a handsome man.

****************************

“What in the name of God was that all about, Athos?” Aramis asked, as curious as a cat about everything and everyone.

“Nothing. Did anyone give you the directions to the camping ground?”

The woman who had spoken to Athos had mounted a horse held for her by a guard, and was now riding at walking pace across the square on her own. “Is she safe?” d’Artagnan whispered to Porthos.

“Not at all,” Porthos said. “I pity the poor bugger who lays a hand on her.”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant, lad. But the queen doesn’t let her councillors walk around without being able to defend themselves, and that lady looks lethal to me.”

“Really?” D’Artagnan stared after the woman, now disappearing into the deepening dark.

“We need to move,” Athos snapped.

By the time they arrived at the officially designated camping grounds, it was full night, but the grounds were hung with lanterns, and guards and officials made sure they were taken to a good position. Aramis approved. “Sanitation, clean water, good fire pits...someone knows their job.”

“I imagine they do,” Athos said. “Her majesty only takes the best.”

They set up the tent, and while doing so, a man came around offering them a pot of hot stew and plentiful bread, all for free. “Generous,” Porthos mumbled around a mouthful of good bread.

“I understand that her Majesty treats suitors as her guests for the time they are here, and wants everyone to have the same advantages,” Aramis said.

“She must be really kind,” d’Artagnan said, a little wistfully. “Not that I have a chance with her.”

“You never know,” Aramis said, patting his shoulder.

“I do,” Athos said, staring into his bowl of stew.

“Eh?”

“I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. You’ve come on a wild goose chase. You will not be Consort, whatever your qualities.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Aramis said, while d’Artagnan stared at Athos.

“Because the Mistress of the Guard is my former fiancé, and she hates my guts.”

“So, that’s what all that was about,” Porthos said.

“Didn’t you know?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Not that she was Mistress of the Guard, no. I knew she was in Paris. So you see, you have no chance. She has her Majesty’s ear, and so...I’m truly sorry, lad.”

“Not your fault,” d’Artagnan said, thought he was disappointed. Not because he really hoped...but not to even have the smallest chance. To be discounted over something that was nothing to do with him. “I guess we should just go home, then.”

“Not so fast, my young friend,” Aramis said. “Have you forgotten the other reasons you’re here? Stay until the first round, and make friends. You never know what might come of it.”

“I suppose.”

This wasn’t how he expected it to go at all. He’d been looking forward to some time in the city, but now he would feel like an idiot, mixing with other suitors, knowing all the while he was secretly disqualified.

“Why did the Mistress of the Household want to speak to you?” Aramis asked Athos.

“She...wanted to smooth over any hurt feelings Anne—the Mistress of the Guard—caused.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos said.

Aramis whistled. “You might have mentioned that. D’Artagnan, things aren’t as gloomy as he says.  If you truly had no hope, the mistress wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Maybe she just liked Athos?” After all, some people did, against all expectations.

“Does it matter? You have a chance after all, so cheer up. And Athos, you be very nice indeed to that lovely woman.”

“And the other one,” Porthos muttered. “‘Less you want to wear your guts for garters.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis had a headache of a very particular flavour, and it had Athos’s name on it. Aramis rarely quarrelled with anyone, since he believed in listening, and trying to see the other person’s point of view. But when he did, it was usually with Athos.

It was _always_ with Athos.

Not that he even quarrelled with Athos very often. Athos was, despite his moodiness and drinking, a sweet, generous man and unfailingly kind.

Usually.

But that morning, Athos had woken in a foul temper as a result of the encounter with his former fiancé the night before, and the prohibition against alcohol. Aramis had made the mistake of suggesting he find the lovely Mistress of the Household and build a few bridges there for the sake of d’Artagnan’s chances, and his friend had rounded on him, spitting with rage.

“I’m not a whore”, was the least offensive thing Athos, who’d had a good education and knew both Latin and Greek, had come out with. Aramis also knew Latin and Greek, and some damn fine insults in both, and they had ended up hissing virulent classical slurs at each other in low whispers to avoid being thrown out of the camp for brawling.

Finally, Athos had stormed off, and Aramis had a migraine. He felt only a walk in fresh air, and some distance in time and space from his furious friend would help.

The camp was near the palace grounds, but entrance to those was forbidden quite sensibly, at least, for now, until the first round of selections was made. But the area was wooded, and pleasant, and despite the hundreds of men camped, there the presence of guards and the strolling councillors and their staff ensured a peaceful atmosphere.

Still, Aramis was quite sick of his fellow man for the moment and wanted to be alone. He wandered to the densest grove of beech trees, and sat underneath one to contemplate his sins.

“Tulipe! No, come back. Oh, that dog. Louis, please, don’t run. Tulipe!”

A black and white spaniel pup crashed out of the nearby bushes, and, guessing that this was the absconding canine, Aramis held out his arms. “Hey, puppy, come here, little girl.”

The dog stopped, whining, then ambled over to Aramis for a pat. He picked her up, soothed and petted her, then called out quietly, “Madame, your dog is safe.”

Moments later, a child appeared through a gap in the bushes. “Tulipe!”

The puppy yelped and escaped from Aramis’s hold to run to the little boy and knock him down, which made the child ‘ooph’ in surprise, but not cry, somewhat to Aramis’s surprise.

He had just got to his feet when two well-dressed, slightly red-faced women appeared through the gap. “Louis!” The younger of the two women ran to the boy and tried to pick him up, but the child fought back, and the dog danced around barking and trying to stop the evil abductress.

Aramis picked up the puppy. “Now, now, Tulipe, behave.” The puppy licked his face. “Ah, thank you, _mademoiselle_ , for the free bath.”

The other woman approached. Still holding the dog, Aramis bowed, guessing this was one of the Council. “Madame, good morning.”

“Good morning, _monsieur_. Are you stealing my son’s dog?” She said it with a dimpled smile, so he smiled back.

“Ah, you have caught me. I felt the urgent need for a puppy, and knowing that children have the best taste, I lay in ambush until a young man chased his precious dog into my arms. And I might have got away with it, except for....” He shrugged, and offered the dog to the woman.

Instead, she took the still wailing child from the other woman, and gestured that the dog be given to that lady instead. “Please take her back, Marguerite. We can’t have Tulipe at risk from heinous dog thieves.”

Marguerite—the nanny, Aramis presumed—grinned at him. “No, indeed, madame. Not the _heinous_ ones.” Marguerite curtseyed to her, smiled again at Aramis, and walked away with a still squirming and yelping Tulipe in her arms.

The little boy had calmed a little, but was still making hiccupping sobs in his mother’s arms. “Sorry about that,” she said as she stroked the boy’s hair. “The puppy’s a recent addition, and we’re all still adjusting.”

“I quite understand.” He bowed again. “Aramis d’Herblay, at your service. I shall leave you both in peace.”

“No, no, please don’t rush away. We disturbed you, after all.” Without ceremony, she sat on the ground, and set her son beside her. He was immediately taken with Aramis’s hat which was quite near.

“ _Maman_ , may I?” he said, reaching for it.

She asked permission over his head, and Aramis swept up the hat and put it carefully on the boy’s head. It sank over his eyes, which made him giggle, and pull it off to hold in his hands. He was particularly interested in the pheasant feather, and wanted to grab it out of the band. “No, _cheri_ ,” Aramis said, waggling a finger. “That is my lucky feather. Without it, my hat is in grave danger.”

The boy made another grab for it, and this time succeeded. His mother tried to take it from him, but he set up a heartrending wail. “It’s all right,” Aramis said, resigned to the loss of the thing. “My hat will cope.”

“There are pheasants and peacocks aplenty here. I can arrange for another to be brought to you, twice as fine. You’re one of the suitors, aren’t you?”

“No, madame, merely a friend of one, Charles d’Artagnan. May I have the honour of knowing whom I am addressing?”

“Of course. I’m Ana, Mistress of the Palace.”

“Oh. I didn’t know...there’s a Mistress of the Household, but I’ve met her.”

“Sylvie, yes. I’m...a special member of the Council.”

“That explains it,” Aramis said, smiling. “Oh dear.” Louis had run chubby fingers backwards along the feather and make it all messy. “Shall I show you some magic?”

The boy stared at him, but when Aramis held out his hand, he put the feather into it and waited expectantly. Aramis ran his fingers along the feather from base to tip, realigning the filaments and making them all sit correctly. “ _Voilà_.”

He handed it back to the boy. “ _Maman_?” he asked, big-eyed.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, _monsieur_.”

“You’re welcome, _monsieur_.” He gently plucked the feather from the boy’s fingers and placed it behind his ear. “And now you have my luck.”

But Louis did not care for that, since he couldn’t see it, so he pulled it down and immediately dragged the feather backwards through his fist and wrecked it again.

This time, Aramis’s magic wasn’t enough. “ _Vale_ , poor feather. They are very delicate, you see. They lift the mighty eagles, but only because there are dozens of them, all working together.” He stroked the tip of the feather across the boy’s forehead, and then his cheek, too fast for the child to catch it. When it looked like another wail would break out, he gave the feather back. “There. Perhaps your _maman_ will find another for you that is not all shredded.”

“Perhaps,” she said gravely, eyes bright with amusement. “He does find and keep the most extraordinary things. His father hoped he might become a scholar of natural philosophy.”

“And why not? No knowledge is ever wasted. And you, madame? Do you like nature also?”

“In strictly limited amounts,” she said with another charming smile. “I like my comforts.”

“Ah, me too. Nature, solitude, silence, are all good things, but not in excess. I am too fond of people to ever want to escape completely. That’s why I was a very bad monk.”

Her blue eyes opened wide in surprise. “A monk? I would have thought, perhaps, a soldier.”

“Both. A soldier, then a monk, then a soldier again, and now I work for d’Artagnan’s guardian, the _comte_ de Tréville.”

“You know Jean?”

“Yes. How do you...?”

“We’re old friends. And this Charles is his ward? Then I must try to meet him. Please, don’t let him leave before I send for him.”

“As you wish..”

Louis had had quite enough of sitting around and fiddling with feathers. He stood. “ _Maman_ , come now.” He tugged on her hand to emphasise the point.

She stood and sighed. “No rest for a mother. I should be getting back.”

He stood also, his hat in his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mistress Ana.”

“And you, _monsieur_ Aramis. Thank you for...your dog theft.”

He bowed, keeping his eyes on hers. “Anytime, madame. Anytime.”

****************************

As soon as Anne returned to the palace, she sent a footman to ask the Mistress of the Household to come to her as soon as it was convenient, and another footman to find Marguerite so she could take Louis back to the nursery. Her son was still waving his prized feather around, even though it was quite a battered thing now. She smiled as she remembered the look in her boy’s eyes when Aramis did his ‘magic’.

Although that wasn’t the only reason she was smiling about the encounter.

Sylvie came in a few minutes later and bowed. “Your majesty,” she said with a smile. “You wanted to see me.”

“Oh yes, dear. Thank you for coming so promptly. Have a seat. Do you recall a Charles d’Artagnan among the suitors? Would have been in company with one Aramis d’Herblay.”

For some reason, Sylvie’s smile grew broader. “Oh, yes. I remember him very well. He has some very handsome friends.”

“Does he?” Anne said innocently. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. It turns out that the lad is the ward of my old councillor, Jean de Tréville. I want him to go on the final list.”

Sylvie’s brow furrowed. “But you haven’t even met him.”

“Is he ugly? Does he fart or scratch his balls? Is he rude?”

“No, he’s handsome, polite, and didn’t scratch anything while we spoke to him.” Her lips twitched in amusement as she described him.

“Then let him try on the ring.”

“Of course. The camping ground is almost full. We have no more room.”

Anne waved a hand. “Then close the list. It’s not like I have impossibly high standards. I just want someone with a bit of charm who can give me brothers and sisters for Louis. Surely there must be one man among so many who could do that.”

“One would hope, your majesty. Did you enjoy your walk around the camp this morning?”

“I barely saw any of it. Louis’s dog got loose, and by the time we found it, and him, and sorted that all out, I thought I’d spent long enough. What about you?”

“I’ll going down there this afternoon. Constance is having a look tomorrow morning.”

“How many will we lose after the first round?”

“At least seventy-five percent,” Sylvie said. She made a face. “I feel so sorry for them.”

“Yes, I know. It’s not pleasant for them, but how else can I find a Consort of suitable quality? One can’t expect me to do the wooing.”

“Of course not. It’s just that the best ones have already found wives, and the ones who are left are either formerly married or single for a good reason.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Anne that Aramis might be married. “Out of curiosity, the friends of this d’Artagnan...are they married?”

“Oh, no, though one of them is Clarisse’s former fiancé. The other two have never been married.”

“Clarisse’s fiancé? Oh dear.” Anne had heard the painful story of her dear friend’s broken engagement. “How did that go?”

Sylvie  grimaced. “Painfully. She’s adamant that she doesn’t want it to affect the lad’s chances, but she would cheerfully have her old fiancé tossed over a wall if she could get away with it.”

“Hmmm, better not. He won’t cause her any problems, I hope. I won’t stand for it.”

“No, I don’t think so. She won’t go near him, and he has no reason to go near her.”

“Brute, is he?”

“No, not really. He’s....” Her councillor flushed red.

“Sylvie?”

“He’s handsome. Really handsome.”

“Ah.” Anne smiled to herself at her usually placid friend’s reaction. “His name isn’t Aramis, is it?”

“No, that’s another of the supporters. He’s Athos. Well, Olivier d’Athos. Works for _monsieur_ de Tréville. They all do.”

“Is that so?” Anne might have to drop a note to her old friend. Not yet though. “I, um, met Aramis this morning. I used my _nom de guerre_.”

Sylvie’s eyes opening in shock. “He doesn’t know you’re the queen?”

“No,” Anne said with a slightly embarrassed smile, “and if you’re talking to him or his friends, don’t tell him. I like to meet men who don’t know my position.”

“But he’s not a suitor.”

“Still.”

Sylvie smiled and sighed. “As you wish, your majesty. I might, um, invite Athos to my rooms. For tea.”

“Good hunting.”

“Anne! I mean, your majesty!”

Anne grinned. “Don’t pretend to be shocked, dear. Now, I’m sure you’re busy, so I won’t detain you. But if you pass Constance, I have a special errand for her if she has time.”

Sylvie stood. “Of course. Good hunting to you too,” she said as she walked out. Anne resisted the temptation to throw something at her friend’s back.

****************************

Constance hummed to herself as she walked from the palace down to the suitors’ camping ground after lunch. Her queen was being naughty and encouraging her was fun. The feathers Anne had requested, Constance assumed were for Louis. But the invitation for one Aramis d’Herblay and a Charles d’Artagnan to come to the palace for a glass of wine with her majesty, was for Anne herself.

Constance was all for it. Although she had liked the late Prince Consort well enough, he had been a bit neurotic, and not an ideal match for their queen. If Anne had found someone whom she truly liked to spend some time with, then good for her.

She found the tent d’Artagnan easily using Clarisse’s perfectly drafted map of the site. Two beautiful men were sat outside it, cleaning their boots. “Gentlemen.”

They scrambled to their feet and bowed. The older one asked, “How may we help you, Mistress?”

“The Mistress of the Palace invites suitor Charles d’Artagnan and his supporter Aramis to take wine with her in the palace.”

“Uh, that’s me. Us. I’m suitor Charles d’Artagnan.”

Constance looked the boy up and down. Goodness, he was lovely. And tall. Tall and brown and such beautiful hair. The other one was also very pretty. “And you are Aramis?”

“At your service, madame,” he said with a ridiculous sweep of his hat as he bowed. “When does the Mistress want our presence?”

“Now. As soon as you’re ready. Don’t bother changing, though if you need a clean shirt or anything....”

The one called d’Artagnan bolted into the tent. His friend, in an impeccable white linen shirt and clean breeches, stayed and smiled at her. “May I ask your name, my lady?”

“I’m Constance, Mistress of the Bedchamber.”

“Ah. Very nice to meet you. We have met four of the council so far. All charming women.”

“We’re not here to be charming, _monsieur_.” She glared at him until he gave her an apologetic smile.

“Of course not. But it is better to be charming than otherwise, yes?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I have offended you. I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t. I’d have to care about your opinion to be offended.” The cocky smile slipped a little. Good. Better for these bumpkins to realise their place now.

D’Artagnan emerged, hastily shoving his shirt inside his breeches with one hand, and slicking down his hair with the other. “Will I do?”

“Well enough. Follow me.”

****************************

“What the hell is going on?” d’Artagnan whispered to Aramis as they set off behind the short, beautiful, and imperious woman who’d demanded they go with her.

“I suspect your fortunes have changed,” Aramis said, lowering his voice even more. “Hush, you’ll offend her. And walk tall.”

Aramis had no doubt this was all because of d’Artagnan’s connection to de Tréville, but to be singled out like this at such an early stage was a very good sign indeed. He was delighted for d’Artagnan. The boy had so much potential, and after losing both parents at a sadly young age, could do with a bit of good luck. Even if it didn’t lead to him becoming Consort, surely there had to be a use in the palace for a quick-witted, strong, brave young man who had been educated and trained to the best of their abilities?

At the palace, Mistress Constance led them up stairs and along corridors. “Here we are,” she said, knocking on the door and listening for the “Come!”

Inside the elegant library and office, the Mistress of the Palace sat behind a large desk burdened with letters and books. She rose to greet them. “Ah, Aramis, nice to see you again. And this is Charles?”

D’Artagnan bowed. “Yes, Mistress. Please to meet you.”

“And you, _monsieur_. Your guardian is a dear friend of mine. Had I known you were coming, I would have had you to stay in the palace itself.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went wide. “Madame, you do me too much honour.”

“Not really,” she said, her mouth twisting wryly. “We don’t have any rooms left now. Sorry. But perhaps on your next visit. Now, Mistress Constance has consented to share a glass of wine with you while I renew my acquaintance with your companion, so you go with her, and someone will come fetch you when we’re done.”

“Y-yes, Mistress.” D’Artagnan turned to Aramis and pleaded with his eyes, but Aramis had no better idea what was going on than d’Artagnan did.

“Come along, Charles,” Mistress Constance said. “I won’t eat you, I promise.”

“No, Mistress. Thank you, I mean.”

Aramis bit his lip to stop himself laughing. Ana was polite enough to wait until the other two left the room, then she grinned. “Oh my. He’s really fresh off the farm. Is it his first visit to Paris?”

“No, but the last time he was here, he was only fourteen and someone murdered his father. You can understand why he hasn’t been eager to return.”

She put her hand over her heart. “Heavens. I had no idea. Do sit.” She took her own seat, and rang a bell on the desk. “Is that when Jean took him in?”

“Yes. De Tréville and Charles’s family are all from Gascony, and had been long acquainted. The _comte_ felt it was the least he could do after the death of his dear friend, Alexandre, Charles’s father, since the boy had no other family.”

“Poor man.” At the knock at the door, she called, “Come.”

A footman entered pushing a trolley. On it sat a carafe of red wine, and two crystal wine glasses. She shooed the footman out, and served Aramis herself. “To your good health, _monsieur_.”

“And yours, madame.”

She walked over to a couch near the window. “Join me?”

Aramis did so willingly. She reached behind the couch and removed a small cloth-covered object. “For you.”

Puzzled, he unwrapped it and found a perfect, quite exquisite golden pheasant tail feather, and three other handsome feathers from birds he didn’t immediately recognise. “Thank you. They’re lovely.” He immediately placed them in his hat, making sure they were displayed to best advantage.

“I’m sorry your lucky feather was destroyed.”

He smiled. “Can you keep a secret? I found that feather just before we left de Tréville’s estate. I was only trying to keep your son from wrecking it willy-nilly.”

“I thought as much. But I won’t tell.” She made a delicate adjustment of the feathers. “There, now it’s better than before.”

“It is indeed. Was that why you wanted me to come up to see you?”

“No. Not...entirely.” She drank some of the wine which left her lips stained attractively with red. “Would you think me awful if I said I just wanted to spend more time with you?”

“Ah...you mentioned the boy’s father?” Aramis didn’t mind a bored married woman having fun in the afternoons, but a royal councillor carrying on an affair in the palace was another matter entirely.

Her smile drooped. “My late husband. He died while Louise was only six months old, sadly.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. I’ve spent more than two years mourning, and now I want a husband and more children. I love children.”

“So do I, though I have not had any of my own.” At least any who lived, Aramis thought. “Then to answer your question, I would not think you awful at all, madame.”

“Call me Ana?”

“Ana.” She smiled, and her blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’m surprised you have time to spend with the likes of me.”

“Oh, the queen is not the slave driver some think her to be. Besides, sometimes it’s worth making time for the good things in life. Like fine wine, fine company.” She drew a finger delicately along her jaw and down towards her exquisite _décolleté_. “Fine...amusements.”

“Mistress Ana, are you trying to seduce me?”

Her eyes opened wide in pretend surprise. “Is it working? It’s been so long.”

“Oh, it’s working,” he said dryly. “But given that I am but a humble subject and you are a member of the queen’s council, I can hardly deny you. Not if I want Charles to be treated fairly.”

She sat back. “You think me that kind of woman?”

“No. But do you think me that kind of man?”

She stood and walked to her desk, back stiff. “I think you have said enough, _monsieur_ d’Herblay. I’ll have someone take you to your friend.”

She went to ring to the bell. He stood and held up his hand. “Ana...please?”

She didn’t turn, but she didn’t ring the bell either. “You thought I brought you here to force you with a threat to your friend hanging over your head?”

“No, no. Please. Won’t you come and sit again?”

Since she didn’t move, Aramis rose and walked over to her, standing in front of her. He took her hand in both of his and held it. Her eyes bored into his, alight with anger and perhaps a little shame.  “You are quite the loveliest woman I have ever encountered in my thirty-six years of life. Were you and I equal, I assure you, we would not be talking now because I would have better things to do with my mouth.” He glanced downward to indicate his meaning, and she flushed. “But we are not equal. I have no station, no rank, no fortune, no power. I clean stables, make clothes and empty the house latrines, just as the others do. You have complete power over me, and while I don’t mind for myself, I balk at spoiling things for my dear young friend.”

“I would _never_ do that, Aramis. I’m not like that. I swear I didn’t even think of that when I invited the two of you. To be frank, I simply wanted to meet him and welcome him for Jean’s sake, and it was convenient to invite you both. Constance is kind and will treat him gently. No one will threaten his ability to stand before the queen, I promise.”

He kissed her hand, still held between his two. “I believe you,” he said, and meant it.

“Then...will you kiss me properly?” she asked, sounding almost shy.

He didn’t answer her in words. There was no need to.


	3. Chapter 3

D’Artagnan was horribly afraid he might be falling in love with Mistress Constance. It wasn’t her fault. She was simply being kind to him, especially on learning what had happened the last time he’d come to Paris, and a beautiful woman being kind was always attractive.

But it was more than that. She was as bright as Aramis and sharper than Athos’s blade. She teased. She took an interest in him, and when he learned she was both a crack shot and skilled at the sword—even offering to spar with him right there if he doubted her—he thought he might never meet a more perfect person to spend his life with.

Which was awkward considering he was supposed to be putting himself forward as a prospect Consort to the queen.

He hadn’t expected to spend so long with her, but at least half an hour went by and there was no sign of Aramis, nor of Constance being tired of him. She asked him about living with de Tréville, whom she knew by reputation, and he asked her what it was like running the palace household.

“Busy,” she said. “But I love it. I have good staff, of course.”

“How do you hire them?” he blurted out.

She smiled. “Want a job, do you?”

“I need one, my guardian says. Says I can’t hang around living off him all my life.”

“Quite right,” she said. “There’s always a need for footmen and guards and soldiers. But if you want to be Consort, maybe that kind of thing is too lowly for you.”

“No, not at all. I would consider it an honour.”

“Just as well. It would be. If you’re serious, let’s talk about what skills you have. Can you cook?”

“A little.”

“Sew?”

“Not very well.” His fingers were too long and clumsy. Aramis and Athos were much better at it.

“Hmmm. Do you know how to serve at a formal meal?”

D’Artagnan had never eaten a formal meal in his life. “I could learn?” he said desperately.

“Ah. Well, you ride, use a sword, know how to shoot. Can you stand still for hours at a time?”

He looked at her despairingly. Patience was not one of his virtues.

“What about writing? You read and write French, Latin, Greek—”

“Not Greek,” he admitted. “Spanish though. Aramis taught me.”

“That could be useful. How’s your handwriting? Here. Show me.” She pushed a piece of paper over to him and indicated the quill. “Write me a letter.”

“About what?”

“About how much you want to work at the palace. It doesn’t need to be long. I just want to know if you have a tidy hand.”

He obediently wrote a short, polite letter to her in his best handwriting asking for work of any kind in the Palace. When he finished, she took the letter from him. She frowned. “It’s very good,” she said politely, “but not exactly to our standards. I think you would probably be unhappy as a clerk. The army would suit you better, I think.”

“But France is at peace for now.”

“And long may she remain so,” she said a little tartly. “But we still need soldiers to keep our people safe from criminals, to assist in times of crisis or famine. We don’t need sword-wielding thugs, d’Artagnan. We want good people who want to help.”

“That’s me. I love helping others.”

She smiled. “Then I’ll speak to Mistress Elodie about it. If you aren’t chosen as Consort, I mean.”

“Yeah. Of course. Um, the Mistress has been a while, hasn’t she? With Aramis, I mean?”

“I expect they have a lot to talk about.”

“But she only met him yesterday.”

Constance looked at him as if he was a little simple, then appeared to realise he really was a little simple, because she said, “I can arrange to have you taken back to the camp, if you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored at all! I’m just...worried I’m boring you.”

“I’ll tell you if you are, _monsieur_.”

Someone knocked at the door, and she told them to come. A footman entered and bowed. “Mistress, her majesty is finished with _monsieur_ d’Herblay, so you may step along to collect him when convenient.”

“Thank you, Henri.” The footman bowed and left. She turned to face d’Artagnan, and found him staring at her in horror. “Oh, bugger,” she muttered, realising what he’d heard.

“Her...majesty? She said she was—”

She put her finger to her lips. “Hush. You can’t tell anyone, Charles. Not even Aramis.”

“But why did she lie?”

“She didn’t. She just...omitted. Look, she likes to visit the camp incognito sometimes to get a feel for things. Sometimes she wants to walk around Paris without a full guard. Sometimes she needs not to be queen to do her job.”

“But how is lying to Aramis doing her job?”

Constance seemed genuinely irritated with him. “It’s none of your business what the queen does or how she does it. I’m telling you...no, I’m ordering you as a Minister of the Crown, not to tell _anyone_ what you have learned today in confidence. If you do, you’ll be arrested. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Her expression softened. “D’Artagnan, I’m sorry to have to be so stern. But state secrets are state secrets.”

“I understand, Mistress.”

“Then we better go fetch your friend.”

He didn’t know where to put his face when he walked into the queen’s...the Mistress’s office. Aramis wore a satisfied expression, and although the Qu— Mistress was as elegant and well-coiffed as before, she too wore a smile that told the world she felt very, very good right then.

“Ah, there you are, Charles,” she said brightly. “Did you enjoy your chat with Mistress Constance?”

He bowed. “Yes, Mistress.”

“D’Artagnan is considering joining the army if he isn’t successful,” Constance said brightly.

Aramis shot him a startled look, but Mistress Ana smiled. “I’m sure you would make a very fine soldier, d’Artagnan. I hope you and I will have time to talk again.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“Aramis, I’m sure we will meet again,” she said airily.

“I hope so, my lady.” The two of them shared a smirk that made d’Artagnan’s stomach flip.

“Come along, gentlemen,” Constance said. “I’ll have someone take you back now.”

Aramis waited until Constance handed them over to a footman, to whisper, “The army?”

“Yeah.”

Aramis frowned at his short answer, but said no more until they reached the camp and they were left to find their own way back to their tent.

“Did something happen while you were talking to Mistress Constance?” Aramis asked.

“Yeah. You had sex with Mistress Ana.”

Aramis stopped walking, tilted his hat back on his head, and regarded him with narrowed eyes. “How is that your concern, d’Artagnan?”

“Well, that’s my chance at being Consort blown for a start.”

“She gave me her word it would have no effect on your chances.”

D’Artagnan glared. “And you believed her,” he said bitterly.

“I have no reason not to.”

“Yeah, right. I want to...stretch my legs. I’ll catch you up later.”

“As you wish.”

D’Artagnan stomped off towards the stables and holding field. At least horses didn’t play this kind of game.

****************************

“There’s another lot gone,” Porthos said as he and Athos walked along the tidy lines of tents after the end of their shift working with the horses.

“Inevitable,” Athos said. “I’m sure the councillors are ruthless in culling the least suitable.”

“Yeah. Gotta be. Costs a fortune hosting this lot. Maybe next time she should do it by invitation.”

“That’s what it was this time, remember?”

“Yeah, but. Oy, there’s a couple of them right now.”

Athos followed the direction of Porthos’s gaze, and spotted Mistress Sylvie and a slight blonde woman he hadn’t seen before, coming their way. “Quick, let’s hide,” he said dead-pan.

“Nah. That’s Mistress Elodie. Mistress of the Army. I hear she’s wicked sharp.”

“Porthos, do any of the women in the council strike you as dull?”

His friend grinned. “Not hardly. I’d like to meet her.”

“I thought your soldiering days were over.”

“It’s never over for us soldiers. If there’s another war....”

“Which we hope there will not be,” Athos said firmly. He’d had enough of war for one lifetime.

Sylvie waved and called, “Athos! And Porthos, isn’t it?”

They both bowed to the women approaching them. “Yes, it is, madame,” Porthos said. “At your service.”

“Gentlemen, this is Mistress Elodie, Mistress of the Army. Elodie, this is Porthos, and his friend Athos. I told you about them,” Sylvie said. Athos had a horrible fear he knew exactly what she had told them, and wished very much to be anywhere else.

Up close, Mistress Elodie was tiny next to Sylvie, but she had calm, wide eyes which commanded attention. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

“And you, madame,” Athos said politely. Porthos tipped his hat at them both.

Sylvie turned to Porthos. “Elodie thought you might make a good recruit for the army. Why don’t you go on, dear, and I’ll find you. I want to chat with Athos.”

“Of course. Porthos?” Elodie beckoned, and Porthos fell in beside her as they walked away.

Sylvie watched them go. “He’s a very fine man.”

“He is, and a good soldier. My boss would be sorry to lose him though.”

“It’s his choice, of course. How are you? The other evening must have upset you somewhat.”

“I’ve had better ones.”

“I’m sure. Walk with me? I’ve been talking to people all afternoon, and some peace would be nice. You don’t strike me as a chatterbox.”

Athos only lifted his eyebrow at that, and she laughed. “Yes, exactly.”

She headed towards the less crowded end of the camp, where there were trees and a chance to escape one’s fellow man. In two days, Athos had made lengthy use of it. The pounding in his head wouldn’t stop, his self-loathing was unending, and his anger at Anne’s stunt unabated. He was not in the mood to make conversation with anyone but Porthos, though Mistress Sylvie, strangely enough, did not irritate him. Perhaps it was because she had been kind, and was kind still.

Or perhaps it was because she was unlike Anne as cheese from a wasp.

“What do you do for _Monsieur_ de Tréville?” she asked.

“Officially, I’m d’Artagnan’s tutor in the sword, music, and his books. Unofficially, I help manage things, and do what needs doing, as we all do. It’s a small estate, just enough to keep us, him, a few servants, the horses and a mule.”

“What of your own estate?”

“I lost my taste for that life. The house is closed up.”

“You abandoned your tenants?”

Athos did not want to talk about this. “I have a manager.”

She seemed to understand the reason for his tone, and abandoned the subject.

Only to immediately pick up another more painful one. “Clarisse said she loved you. Did you love her?”

He sucked in a breath. After all this time, it still hurt so much. “Like wood loves fire. I could not resist her, but she consumed me, and when she was done, left only ashes.”

Sylvie was silent. Athos belatedly realised that he might have given offence. He glanced sideways but saw only compassion in her expression. “It seems to have been a terrible time for you both.”

“Probably. Only she ended up at the palace and I ended up....” _Drinking my way across five countries._ “Once my services as an officer were no longer required, I spent a year or so plying my trade as a sword tutor to various noble families until they had no use for me. De Tréville hired me just after he took in d’Artagnan.”

“I wonder,” she said slowly, “at him needing a tutor for the things you teach. I believe he was quite skilled at the sword, and an educated man himself.”

“ _Monsieur le comte_ was once my better, it’s true, but he is now troubled by arthritis.” _And nothing needs to be said about him wanting to stop me drinking myself to death._

“Unfortunate. Her majesty speaks highly of his wisdom and bravery.”

“As she might well do. Mistress Sylvie, was there something in particular you wanted of me?”

“You aren’t enjoying our conversation, _monsieur_?”

Athos repressed a sigh. “Seeing how you have exposed all of my wounds and picked over them like a—” He nearly said “crow”, but amended it to, “Beetle, it’s not likely I would find it comfortable, no.”

“I’m sorry. My father always said I was too nosy for my own good.”

“You astonish me, madame.”

She laughed, a bright, brilliant sound that rang around the trees. “You’re not bothered by my rank at all, are you?”

“I offer your rank respect, but if you’re looking for servility, I’m afraid it’s not one of my qualities.”

“Good. If I wanted to talk to a servant, I would do. I’ll send someone for you tomorrow, for tea, as I suggested before. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Are we going to talk about Mistress de Breuil again?”

“No.”

“And are you going to examine my unquestioned refusal to make more of my position in life?”

“No?”

He bowed. “Then I would be delighted to accept your offer, madame Boden.”

She held out her hand. “Call me Sylvie.”

He shook it. “I’m Athos. I believe once you’ve seen a man nearly naked, formality is no longer necessary.”

“Probably true,” she said, grinning at him. “Until tomorrow, Athos.”

****************************

Porthos had been wondering how a slip of a girl like Elodie could command the respect and obedience of all the nobles and soldiers of France, but he had his answer within moments of conversing with her. She had a rock-solid serenity, and a certainty about her right to command and her ability to do so that he’d only seen in people like his boss. Or Athos, on a very good day.

She quickly sized him up. “A life working in stables and shovelling horseshit is a waste of your talents, _monsieur_. Should France need warriors again, and she will, she will need you.”

“Very kind of you, madame. But a soldier’s gotta keep himself when there ain’t no fighting.”

“True, but we also need to train men in readiness for the next conflict. Peace is not permanent, Porthos. Not this peace. The Holy Roman Empire and the Spanish snap and strain at our borders, and it’s only a matter of time before we have to engage with them again, whatever diplomacy her majesty carries out.”

“Her nearly brother-in-aw would wage war on the girl he practically raised?”

“Spain will wage war on France. Or vice versa, if forced. I believe that only the King of Spain’s love for the queen has saved us thus far, and perhaps the death of the Prince Consort. Whether she marries again or not, Phillip will press us again.”

“I’ll be there. You can count on it.”

“Not enough, Porthos.” She stopped and stared up at him with those disturbingly lovely eyes of hers. “Her majesty wants to revive the Musketeer regiment, not as a personal guard this time, but to help police and assist the people of Paris, and be a reserve we can quickly call on. There are veterans aplenty with skills, men and women without meaningful employment. She wants to use them and train them. And I want men like you, Porthos, to train them.”

He blinked. “You want me to quit _Monsieur_ de Tréville?”

“If he can spare you. Your companions are also veterans, all but the youngest, yes?” He nodded. “We want them, or as many as can be spared. We want the best people, not just bodies.”

“Right. I gotta talk to him, but I can’t see him saying no. Not with who he is and all.”

“Good.” She smiled suddenly. “You must think me rude, not to even ask anything about yourself.”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “No. I ain’t anyone special.”

“You’re wrong. So why don’t you tell me about yourself as we walk back to your tent, and perhaps you and I can dine together later this week?”

****************************

Athos returned to their camp feeling a little less misanthropic than he had when he departed it. Aramis was there, washing shirts on a washboard in a tub. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“Off sulking.”

Athos sighed. “Now what did you do to him?”

“Not a damn thing and that’s the truth, Athos.” He continued to scrub at a particularly persistent stain.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“He’s taken against the idea that a man and a woman, neither with attachments, should spend a pleasant afternoon in the manner which men and women have been spending it since Adam and Eve.”

“You had sex with a woman? Here?”

Aramis dropped the shirt in the tub to glare at him properly. “At the palace, actually. By invitation and with complete consent.”

“God, you’re not screwing one of the female servants, are you?”

“I don’t ‘screw’ anyone, male or female. Lord, you’re all such _oafs_. No, not a servant. One of the councillors...don’t look at me like that! I told you, by consent and invitation!”

“Which councillor?” Athos said in a deadly voice.

“Not your precious Anne or Clarisse, whatever her name is. Ana. Mistress of the Palace. She’s quite charming.”

Athos choked. “Ana, Mistress of the...are you talking about her majesty?”

“Don’t be stupid. Ana, not Anne. About twenty-five, twenty-six, exceedingly fair of skin and hair. Has a little boy, and her husband died two years ago.”

“So not our beloved queen who is seven and twenty, blond, beautiful, with a child called Louis aged not quite three, whose Prince Consort died two years ago. And whose name in Spanish is Ana.”

Aramis stared while his stomach turned to ice. “No?” he whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“She said...she talked about the queen as someone else.”

“Aramis, the queen has been known to use ‘Mistress of the Palace’ as an alias. It’s not commonly known, but I heard it said while I was tutoring in Paris six years ago.”

“What have I done? Is it true?”

Athos sighed. “I can’t believe you slept with the queen.  Only you, Aramis. Only you.”

“But she lied.”

“Royal prerogative. Where was Charles when this was going on?”

“Talking to Mistress Constance.”

“Then he probably learned the truth by accident, and thinks you’ve ruined what small chance he had of being Consort.”

“That’s what he said. She promised it wouldn’t. Would it?”

Athos arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know. How good are you in bed, really?”

Aramis groaned painfully. “Oh God. But it’s not treason or anything, is it? She’s not married, and I’m not married. It’s not wrong...the Church would be annoyed, but they’ve forgiven worse. Oh God, I need to confess.”

“Pick a young priest or you’ll give someone a heart attack,” Athos said, not showing a great deal of sympathy for his situation.

“What if she wants to see me again? She does. Want to see me again, I mean.”

“You can’t say no, because she’s the queen. But you can’t say yes, because she’s the queen. I suggest you might want to rejoin your monastery.”

Aramis gave him a sour look. “You are no help at all.”

“I wasn’t trying to be. But I was also serious. You—and your prick—are between a rock and a hard place, not for the first time. Maybe this will teach you to keep it in your breeches.” Athos put his hat back on his head and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“To join your monastery. I think that may be the only reasonable solution to everything.”


	4. Chapter 4

D’Artagnan returned for supper, still avoiding Aramis’s eyes. Porthos looked at him, and then at Aramis, who winced and shook his head. His friend nodded, and said nothing to either of them about whatever the problem was. He did, however, tell them that Mistress Elodie was recruiting for a reformed Musketeer regiment, and wanted to know what they thought.

“Are you going to enlist?” Aramis asked.

“Thought I might. Don’t like to leave the boss in the lurch, but he’d understand. What about you, d’Artagnan? You’d be perfect.”

“Maybe,” the lad said without much enthusiasm, stabbing his spoon into his bowl like he wished it was a knife, and the bowl, Aramis’s chest. “Do you trust her?”

“Elodie? Yeah. Why not? You shouldn’t go around saying stuff like that, boy. It’s disrespectful.”

D’Artagnan looked at Aramis as he answered, “Well, maybe not all the councillors deserve respect.”

He dumped his bowl into the bucket they used to wash them up, and went into the tent without another word.

“What in hell’s wrong with him?” Porthos asked.

“Leave it, my friend. He has cause.”

“What have you done?” Porthos asked in a weary tone.

“Something I need to attend to. Please don’t ask about it.”

Athos returned later, not having actually joined the monastery—Aramis could not really imagine their dour friend as a monk—but didn’t say anything about their earlier conversation. He listened to Porthos’s report about Mistress Elodie’s plans, but expressed no opinion one way or the other. Athos would be excellent in the new regiment, Aramis considered, but their long friendship with de Tréville was the biggest barrier to accepting. Still, if there was another war, they would all need to fight, and surely it was better that the soldiers were well-trained first.

He slept badly, fretting because he had not the smallest idea how to deal with the Ana situation. For Athos was right—he could not refuse a second invitation without causing offence, or worse. But lovely and willing as she was, he could not treat the Queen like any other lover, or pretend an affair would not affect his friends if it went wrong.

Not to mention what the suitors would do to him if they found out.

He and d’Artagnan were assigned to the morning shift with the horses. D’Artagnan took care to avoid him, finding occupation anywhere but where Aramis was at any point. There was a lot to do and no need to talk, but it pained him to be at odds with his friend.

When they were done and washing their hands and faces, Aramis confronted him. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

“You don’t even know what you’re apologising for,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“I do. You...discovered something you were sworn to keep secret, am I right?”

D’Artagnan stared at him, big-eyed. “You knew?”

“No. I found out afterwards. I promise you, I’ll deal with it. But you must keep the secret, for your own sake as well as mine.”

“Don’t worry. I have no wish to tell anyone that you and the...you know who...slept together.”

No invitation from ‘Mistress Ana’ awaited him on his return. However, there was one from Mistress Sylvie inviting him and Athos to tea that afternoon. “Why would she want me to come?” Aramis asked.

“Perhaps she thinks I need a guard,” Athos said. “She’s not wrong.” Aramis snorted, and Athos almost smiled.

Athos took more than usual care over his appearance, which was to say he ran a comb through his beard and put on a clean shirt, as well as washing his face and hands. Aramis thought to tease him about what he expected from Mistress Sylvie, but in the circumstances, considered it wiser to keep his mouth shut. He was, after all, in a weak position to joke about such things.

The two of them were discreetly escorted by a footman to the palace, using the same path Constance had taken the previous day, one which shielded them from those in the encampment and in the palace grounds. Considering the last ring choosing ceremony had been at least three decades before, Aramis couldn’t help wondered what the path was normally used for.

The footman led them to Mistress Sylvie’s office, a plain but elegant apartment with a huge document case along one wall, and ceiling-high bookcases along the others. “Welcome, gentlemen. Athos, do please sit. Aramis, the Mistress of the Palace would like a word with you.”

Athos glanced at Aramis, and said more with that sardonic look than another might with more dramatic eye-rolling. “Of course.”

“Paul, please take the _monsieur_ to Mistress Ana?”

The footman bowed and led Aramis along the corridor to the room he’d visited the day before. Only this time, he heard a child laughing as the door opened and he was shown in.

“Aramis!” Louis ran over and grabbed his legs.

Aramis patted his head. “Hello, young man. Are you lucky today?”

“Look!” As the child ran back to find his treasure, his mother dismissed the footman and rose to greet Aramis.

“Thank you for coming. Louis was beside himself and insisted on staying so he could see you again too.”

“Of course.” Aramis crouched down to inspect what the boy held in his chubby fist. “Now what do you have...feathers? My goodness, aren’t they very fine indeed. But where is your hat, _monsieur_?”

“ _Maman_ , hat!”

“Yes, Louis. We’re making you a hat just like _monsieur_ Aramis’s.”

“This hat!” And with that, he whisked Aramis’s out of his hand and ran off with it to the other end of the room.

“Louis!”

“ _Por favor, no se preocupe, señora. El sombrero sobrevivirá._ ” [Don’t concern yourself, madame. The hat will survive.]

“ _Pero tiene que aprender que no puede arrebatarle cosas a la gente_ —” [But he has to learn that he can’t snatch things from people—] She stopped and put her hand over her mouth.

“Your majesty,” Aramis said, bowing deeply with only the tiniest sarcastic lift of his eyebrow.

“How did you find out?”

Aramis strolled over to Louis hiding in the corner, hat jammed on his head and the brim clutched tightly in his hands. “It’s all right, _querido,_ I won’t take it from you. But please, don’t scrunch it up so much. The brim needs to sit just so, you see?” He carefully and very gently eased the anxious fingers away from the felt, and adjusted the hat so the boy could see from under it. “Your _maman_ is having a much nicer one made, I’m sure. Will you put your feathers in it?”

Louis blinked at him, confused. “Where are your feathers?” Aramis said slowly.

“Feathers!” And off he zoomed to where he had dropped them in his haste to snatch the hat.

Ana—her majesty—was still standing where she had been, staring at him. Aramis ignored her, and when Louis returned with the feathers, distracted him by picking each one up and examining it, praising the colour and the shape, and talking about the bird it had come from, and the distant land of China where the birds lived. The hat, being a nuisance, was quickly discarded, and Aramis tossed it over onto the top of a chest of drawers at the side, hoping it would be forgotten soon enough. And if not, it was not a disaster.

The queen was certainly forgotten as Louis chattered and Aramis answered him in slow easy words the boy could follow. He was quite startled when a new female voice said, “Now, Louis, it’s time to leave.”

It was Marguerite again. Louis looked up at his nurse, his bottom lip wobbling, and tears threatened. Aramis picked him up and held him at head height. “Hey, now, _querido_ , this pretty lady has come to carry you off for cake, is that not true, _mademoiselle_?”

“There could be cake. And Tulipe,” Marguerite said, knowing her charge’s weakness.

“Tulipe!” Louis fought to be put down, and Aramis set him on the floor. He ran to Marguerite. “I want Tulipe, please?”

“Of course.” She picked him up. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

“Goodbye, _maman_! Goodbye, Aramis!”

When the door shut behind the pair of them, Aramis retrieved his hat. Ana stared out of a window. “I’d like to take my leave now, your majesty.”

She didn’t answer, so he backed towards the door, and opened it.

“Wait!”

He didn’t move. She turned. “Please, Aramis. I wish to speak to you.”

He closed the door, but didn’t approach her. “Do you have more lies you wish to tell me, Mistress Ana? My young friend was furious with me, because he learned your secret and was sure I was damaging his fortunes. I told him that you had promised it would not be so. But that was before I learned I was but a toy for you to play with.”

“You’re not.”

“Am I not? Respect requires honesty, your majesty. I am your subject, and therefore loyal to you. I would die to protect you, but forgive me if I do not wish to listen to more elegant falsehoods.”

She bit her perfect bottom lip. “Aramis, I’m sorry. I use that title so I can move about with discretion among the general population.”

“I am not a simpleton, your majesty. I understand that perfectly. But to...to seduce me, when the very act might even be treason, and not to even let me know what I was chancing?”

“It’s not treason,” she snapped. “Neither of us are married.”

“It would be enough to earn me one or several beatings from a camp full of angry men though. Did you not trust me?”

“I didn’t trust...I don’t trust anyone to treat me as Ana. Not any more. Not in this...intimate area. My friends speak plainly to me, but there is always that reserve...I wanted not to have that between us.”

“There is already considerable reason for reserve, madame, considering what I thought you were, and who I am. You could have said all this to me. Did I not speak plainly and openly to you? What more do you want before you can trust a man?”

“You’re a fool if you think a queen can ever trust anyone completely,” she said with bitterness colouring her beautiful French. “History is littered with the stories of kings and queens betrayed by intimate partners, devoted friends, even their own families. My own former brother-in-law in Spain, as close to me as a real brother could be, is fomenting rebellion on our borders. So, no, I don’t trust you. Or anyone. Never completely. I can’t.”

Aramis continued to regard her unflinchingly. “So what do you want of me, your majesty? You’re looking for a husband, hopefully someone who can satisfy your intimate needs and be a friend withal. You could be married again in a handful of weeks.”

Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, incongruous against ruby and gold silk. “I just...Aramis, I saw you and you were...like my dream of an Arthurian knight come true. Handsome and kind and skilful, and your eyes seemed to see me. _Me_ , not the queen, not ‘your majesty’. But perhaps I am a fool as well.”

“Ana....”

He came over to stand in front of her, and reached for her hands. She let him take them. “You could have said this to me. I can forgive, understand, so many things. I am as far from perfect as a terrible sinner can be. But never lie to me.” He put his finger under her chin and guided it up so she was looking into his eyes. “You want a companion for the moment, a brief fling before settling back into sedate marriage?” She nodded. “And you expect no more of me?”

“No. How can I? I would not keep a lover while married, though many might say I should.”

“Your choice, of course. If that’s all you want, then I will stay, if you want.”

She clasped his hand between hers and held them against the sweet mound of her breasts. “Please. Will you forgive me? Not because I order it, but because I ask it of you as a woman, and a terrible sinner also?”

He kissed her fingers. “How can I not forgive you, when our Lord forgives everyone who repents?” He lowered his head and put his lips against hers. “I forgive you, oh blessed queen, and will be your knight until you wish it no longer.”

****************************

“Have you ever had tea before?” Sylvie asked as she laid out the delicate porcelain cups and measured out a small amount of dried black leaves into a small pot with a spout, equally as delicate and prettily decorated with flower drawings as the cups. All the equipment save the boiling water was stored in the room itself, the water brought in by a footman in a small urn. The footman was quickly dismissed so they were once more alone.

“No, madame. I’ve seen it taken though.”

“We’re all devoted to it here in the palace. It’s such a refreshing drink when one has been working hard all morning, and doesn’t leave one fuzzy-headed like wine does.”

Since Athos drank wine precisely because it did leave him fuzzy-headed, he couldn’t comment. He waited until she had poured the water into the pot and sat down to wait for it to brew, before saying, “Her majesty is playing a somewhat worrying game with my friend.”

Sylvie’s head came up sharply. “Which friend? What game?”

“Aramis. And the game is the usual between men and women. Only she is not just any woman, is she?”

“How did you find out? No one was supposed to know!”

“Her _nom de jeux_ is not as secret as she imagines it is. Aramis didn’t know until I pointed that out.”

“Bastard.”

“I am not. My birth from two people married to each other was properly attested, I assure you.”

She made a face at him. “No, I mean for spoiling the secret. Honestly. She just wanted a little amusement. She works so hard and the time since Prince Consort’s passing has been so very difficult for her.”

“I’m sure. But Aramis is a commoner, and my friend, and when commoners become involved with royalty, it tends not to end well for them. Just ask Anne Boleyn.”

“Are you suggesting her majesty is Henry VIII?”

“You know what I’m suggesting, Mistress Sylvie,” he said coldly. “You’re no fool, nor am I.”

She sagged. “No, I suppose not. Please don’t talk about it.”

“Trust me when I say that nothing could be further from my intentions. I don’t like this at all. The more who know, the more trouble Aramis will find. I don’t want to return to the tent one evening and find him beaten to a pulp, or worse, by enraged suitors.”

“I didn’t even think about that.”

“No, I don’t suppose any of you did. Was my invitation only a cover for your mistress?”

“What? Oh no. Aramis’s invitation was a cover for _me_.”

Athos was not prone to blushing, but he did feel his face going warm. “Ah.”

She laughed. “The look on your face. I wanted to talk, Athos. Talk. Drink tea and get to know you better.”

“And recruit me to this new regiment?”

She waved a hand. “That’s Elodie’s job, not mine. Aren’t I allowed to invite a handsome, well-spoken man to my apartment for conversation?” Her innocent look was entirely ruined when her cheeky smile broke out.”

“You can do as you please, of course, but I’m not sure you will recoup the cost of the tea from my _bon mots_.”

Her husky laughter rang out again.


	5. Chapter 5

Guy, _comte_ de Rochefort, was naturally in the front row with the other high-ranking nobles when Ninon de Larroque, Mistress of the Court, made the announcement of the thirty men who had been selected for the second round in the process of choosing a future Prince Consort. His supporter, General Georges de Foix, watched him from the side with a blank expression.

All the ten men in the front row could expect to pass easily to the second round. It would never do to upset the senior nobles. To his left stood Prince Gaston, brother of the late Prince Consort. He would be easily dismissed, Rochefort thought. Not only was he a poor specimen of a man, Rochefort had discovered the prince and his supporters and hangers-on were plotting treason. Never a good thing in a potential husband.

To his right, Edmond de l'Ouvrier, son and heir of the Baron Renard. A good family gone to seed, in Rochefort’s opinion. Edmond and his father were a bit too fond of the old ways, and their exploits and mistreatment of local women would soon become known to the Mistress of the Guard or one of her colleagues. Next to him, another noble scion and a spendthrift and gambler. The next was already secretly married. It would be child’s play to remove easily six or seven of Rochefort most highly ranked competitors.

As for the lesser nobility, none of them really troubled him, except for that Gascon yokel, d’Artagnan. Nothing special in himself, he had supporters who had, against all expectations, became favourites of the council, and of the queen herself. Marguerite had been passing Rochefort all kinds of interesting titbits of gossip, especially about Aramis, the bastard son of a gentleman farmer and a prostitute. The queen was clearly unaware of his lineage. That ignorance would be rectified at the point when it would be most useful.

The names the Mistress read out were no great surprise to Rochefort, not even d’Artagnan’s, though it was to a number of men of slightly higher rank than the farm-boy’s. D’Artagnan received a good many dirty looks for his inclusion—as well he might.

The Mistress concluded by giving those not chosen her thanks and those of her majesty, and saying they would be well-supplied for their journey home, which she asked that they make as swiftly as possible. Good. The presence of these would-be royals, living on the Queen’s purse, offended Rochefort to his soul. They had no business making a claim on what was rightfully his.

The ceremony over, the crowd of men dispersed. Rochefort wandered over to de Foix. “Only another week, general.”

“Can’t you let her go now, Rochefort? You have what you wanted. Now you can let the ring make the choice. I can do no more for you.”

“You underestimate your usefulness, general. Your sister will be freed as promised, and unharmed, but until then, you have work to do. I want to know everything there is to know about the fifteen most highly ranked nobles aside from me and the prince. Oh, and de Tréville’s ward. His supporters are of interest to me. Find out what you can.”

“How?”

“Find a way, general. You know what the cost will be for a shabby effort.”

De Foix grimaced. Rochefort ignored him and walked away. One of the yokel’s friends—Athos, he believed he was called—stared at him. “Do you want something?” Rochefort drawled.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Should I?”

“We met at Roissy once. At the duc de Coronel’s house.”

“I very much doubt it. The duc does not entertain commoners.”

“Indeed not.”

The man turned away, and only then Rochefort realised he had made a blunder. Now he needed to know who that scruffy creature was, and more important, what threat he was to Rochefort’s plans.

****************************

Athos rejoined his friends who stood with d’Artagnan, congratulating him. “I told you that you had a good chance,” Aramis crowed while Porthos beamed.

“It’s not me, it’s de Tréville,” d’Artagnan pointed out with perfect honesty.

“Who cares? Now you have your chance to shine. Look at the competition,” Aramis said, waving discreetly toward the nobles who had been selected, some of whom were staying in the palace as a mark of honour. “What a puling bunch of milksops.”

“With lineages that go back to Louis IX. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m having fun.” The lad grinned as he looked over at Mistress Constance, who caught his glance and smiled, before turning away to finish her conversation.

Athos sighed. D’Artagnan had become closer than was wise to the Mistress of the Bedchamber, but then Athos was in no position to lecture. None of them were.

De Tréville was going to hang him up by his balls in the stables for allowing this situation to occur. One only hoped that the four of them would escape back to the estate without any unwise attachments being formed that would require gold or a duel to break.

“Who was that weasel you were talking to?” Porthos asked.

“Weasel?”

“Blond man, face like a smacked arse, fancy clothes.”

“Oh, that weasel. That’s the _comte_ de Rochefort. I believe he may be a friend of her majesty. I met him once.”

“And?”

“And, weasel is as weasel does.” Rochefort’s lack of recognition didn’t surprise Athos. He had, after all, been at the duc de Coronel’s house as sword tutor to his children. Rochefort hadn’t realised that Athos was not only a noble, but that his rank was superior to his own, and had thus dismissed him from his thoughts. That kind of thinking was sadly common amongst the nobility, Athos had found.

“What about that guy?” d’Artagnan said, pointing to Edmond de l’Ouvrier. “He’s handsome if you like that kind of thing.”

“One hopes that even if the ring chooses him, that her majesty will not,” Athos said. Baron Renard and his son were oafs and brainless. Athos found it hard to imagine that a woman of such education and intelligence as the Queen, would be swayed by mere good looks. After all, her fling with Aramis was as much to do with Aramis’s charm and erudition, as Aramis’s undoubtedly strikingly fine features.

Sylvie spotted Athos and walked over to greet him. “Congratulations, d’Artagnan.”

“Thank you. I don’t really expect to win, but it’s still an honour. What do we do next?”

“Same as before, only with more space. There’s a ball tomorrow night. I was hoping the _comte_ de la Fère might ask me to dance.”

She smiled winningly at Athos, who had not intended to go to the damn thing at all. “I don’t know about that chap, but Athos might be persuaded.”

“Excellent. Her majesty wanted me to tell you all particularly that while normally, there would be high dress standards, these do not apply tomorrow, as she’s aware many of the suitors would not have clothes of the correct kind. However, you may apply to the Mistress of the Household if you would like to borrow a coat or anything.”

“I hear she’s a bit of a tough nut to crack,” Porthos said, grinning at her.

“Oh yes,” she said, smiling back at him. “A dragon. I should come bearing gifts, if I were you.”

“And what,” Athos asked, “does this dragon not have that would be welcome?”

“Let me think. A posy of wild flowers? Feathers for her hat? A sweetly inscribed poem to entertain her? A kiss from a perfect gentleman?”

“None of them here,” Porthos said. “Athos is the closest thing we’ve got.”

“I never said I was fussy.” She smirked at Athos, who allowed his lips to curl upwards very slightly in response. She had found his kisses perfectly acceptable. “Seriously, you don’t need anything. But you might like to rummage through the clothes nonetheless. The queen has made some of the late prince’s clothes available for those without, if they choose.”

Athos wouldn’t bother. He had no one to impress, and no need to try. But d’Artagnan should, and he would encourage him. Even if he had no chance of catching the queen’s eye, Mistress Constance would expect him to make a little effort.

He left d’Artagnan with Aramis to take him to Sylvie’s clothing store for her assistants to deal with them, because of course a member of the Council was not needed to personal supervise such a mundane task. Porthos had wandered off to find Elodie. Now the first culling had occurred, those who remained were now free to walk between the camp and palace without escort, although guards remained to check no one abused the privilege, or threatened the peace and safety of the queen or her household.

Sylvie walked with him back to the camp. “Elodie really wants to know if you want to join the Musketeers,” she said.

“Does she,” Athos said.

“As do I, for other reasons.” She stopped him so she could take his hands in hers. “Athos, will you not write to the _comte_? D’Artagnan no longer needs a tutor, and de Tréville can surely find another manager.”

“I don’t see the need for haste. Nor do I consider myself the prize she does.” He shifted his hands and she let him go.

“You could do so much good work here.”

“Under Clarisse’s baleful gaze?”

“She made it clear that she had no interest in tormenting you further. She gave in to a moment’s weakness when you surprised her, that’s all. It’s beneath her dignity to do more.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“I thought you might like to stay in Paris. To get to know me better, perhaps. Unless you’re not that interested.”

Sensing the threads of silken desire she wove around him, and feeling trapped and smothered, he lashed out, rather than considering things properly. “Perhaps I’m not.”

It was as if he’d struck her, her face showed such shock, and he immediately wanted to apologise because what he’d said wasn’t even true, but her expression went chilly. “As you wish, _monsieur_.” She turned and walked away at speed.

 _Call her back, you fool_. But years and years of stepping hard on his painful, turbulent emotions had trained him against showing his weakness, and he let her go. Her stiff back indicated he would not get a second chance.

It was for the best, he told himself. Sylvie literally had her pick of suitors, many noble, all wealthy, and the idea that he, a drunken failure unable to order his estate or his personal life without diving into a wine bottle, would be a better match for her than all of them, was ludicrous. He was a passing fancy, and she was better off without him.

And the Musketeers would do well enough without him too. Of that, he was certain.

****************************

“Now I can’t dance with you all night,” Constance said, straightening the collar on the rather nice coat d’Artagnan had managed to borrow. With a pair of pretty shoes and his best breeches and shirt, he didn’t look too awful. Or so Constance said. Aramis had been too busy preening to be much help.

“I know.”

“It would look odd, since it’s your chance to get to know her majesty.”

“I know. But I don’t _want_ to be prince now.” He stole a kiss while her tempting lips were close enough.

“Oh you,” she said, pretending to scold. “It would be an insult if you said such a thing to her, so don’t you dare. Only real suitors are supposed to be staying in the camp ground.”

“I know.” This time he grinned. “But I can _think_ what I like, right?”

“You can _think_ that you want to do your guardian proud and shine for his sake.”

“There’s only one person I want to shine for.”

She wagged her finger at him. “Behave, or I’ll have you castrated.”

“You shouldn’t have encouraged him,” Aramis said.

“I can always have you castrated too.”

“I think I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Aramis said, moving away from her ever so slightly.

“Then behave. Both of you. Where’s Athos?”

“Sulking. He and Sylvie had a fight.”

“Needs a slap, then, that man. Sylvie’s impossible to be angry at.”

“Maybe,” d’Artagnan said, “but she’s damn angry with him. She nearly bit my head off for mentioning him this morning.”

“Hmmm,” she said, looking displeased. “Right. Off you go, and don’t drink too much. Young men can’t handle it.” She added a smile just for him to take the sting out of her words. D’Artagnan didn’t drink much anyway. _He_ didn’t have a problem with wine.

He was sorry Athos wasn’t coming though. His friend had so few pleasures in life, and he and Sylvie seemed to get on so well. It wasn’t as if he _had_ to spend the evening dancing with her. Although Porthos was likely to spend most of it with Elodie, since he wasn’t a suitor and could do as he pleased. If Porthos was going to join the Musketeers, Aramis would too, d’Artagnan was sure. And if those two did, then he would as well.

But if Athos didn’t, it would feel wrong to leave de Tréville’s estate without him. D’Artagnan would have to try and persuade him.

But right now, there was music, food, beautiful people, and at least one willing partner to dance with. “Who will you ask to dance?” he asked Aramis as they walked towards the great hall where the ball was to be held.

“Anyone who will have me. Even you, my pretty, pretty Charles.” D’Artagnan yelped as Aramis suddenly grabbed him and danced with him a few steps down the corridor, until d’Artagnan was able to free himself.

He straightened his jacket and scowled at his friend. “And then we’ll both end up in the Chatelet for unnatural practices between men.”

“No, only I will. You, they’ll put in the Bastille. Being a noble and all that.”

“I don’t want to be put in _either_ , thank you very much.” He stalked ahead, keeping a wary eye out for more shenanigans. But they reached the hall without Aramis laying an improper hand on him again.

D’Artagnan reached the entrance to the hall, and stopped stock still at the vision before him. “Oh, my God.”

Aramis grinned at him. “Goodness, people have been working hard. Isn’t it lovely?”

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”

“Never say that to Constance unless you mean her. Come on. I’m thirsty.”

****************************

“Poor Sylvie,” Elodie whispered to Porthos as they stood together surveying the splendid hall and the people in it. Her fellow councillor was stood a little distance from them, her normally cheerful features cast down. “I could slap Athos.”

“Dunno what’s got into him, truly I don’t. Watch out, here come Rochefort.”

Elodie hid a grimace behind her wine glass as the man came to stand in front of her. “Ah, Mistress Besson.” Rochefort bowed. She nodded in response. Porthos was utterly ignored. “I was hoping to have the honour of a dance with you this evening.”

“My apologies, _monsieur_ le _comte_. I do not dance tonight.”

“Then that is a shame. I’m sure you would be perfect at it.” Porthos fought hard to hide his grin at the face she made. “When will her majesty honour us with her presence?”

“I don’t know, _monsieur_. She had many pressing matters to attend to.”

“Then I shall be patient. Good evening, madame.” He bowed again and went off in Sylvie’s direction. Strangely, he didn’t stop to talk to her at all, but went past and buttonholed Ninon instead.

“If the ring chooses him, I shall cut his finger off,” Elodie muttered, before taking a big gulp of wine. “I swear, if Georges de Foix didn’t speak so well of him, I’d have implored her majesty to cull him like the others.”

“How does the general know him, again?”

“When the queen returned from Spain to take up the throne of France, he was one of the guards. Rochefort was one of the nobles sent to help her majesty settle back into life here, since it had been so many years since she left. I hadn’t realised they’d kept acquainted. I wouldn’t have thought he was de Foix’s type of man at all. His sister would hate him, I’m sure. I’m surprised she’s not here, actually. She and her majesty are great friends.”

“Maybe she’s avoiding Rochefort.”

“Perhaps. But she’s not been here at all. It’s most odd. Oh, look, Clarisse is coming over. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he protested.

Clarisse de Breuil sniffed at Porthos in acknowledgement of his polite bow, but it was Elodie she’d come to see. “Gaston’s gone, just in time to avoid being arrested.”

“How did he find out we were on to him?” Elodie asked

Porthos, who had no idea what they were talking about, listened avidly to this titbit.

“I don’t know but he won’t be welcome here again,” Clarise said darkly. “We’ve had four more senior nobles give their apologies this afternoon as well.”

“That’s a lot dropping out so soon. I was expecting more from the lower ranks, and not until after the ball.”

“Yes, me too. Something’s going on,” Clarisse said. She suddenly seemed to realise Porthos was hearing all this. “Not a word about this, du Vallon.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Is your _friend_ here?”

“You mean Athos? No, Mistress.”

“Then give him a message for me. Tell him if he makes Sylvie Boden cry again, I will carve him up into small pieces and feed him to the hounds.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” She stalked off.

“Now he’s done it,” Elodie murmured.

“I think he done it a long time ago, actually. Don’t blame her though. I thought Sylvie might want to be the one who cut him up first. What’s going on with Prince Gaston?”

“Insurrection, treason, plotting to have the queen assassinated. Minor offences.”

“Really?”

“Really. So if you see the little rat, feel free to pull his head right off his neck. It’ll save us the cost of a swordsman.

****************************

Sylvie saw Clarisse approaching and tried to raise a smile for her friend, but failed. “Oh darling,” Clarisse said, taking her hands. “He’s not worth it. I told you as much.”

“I know. I should have listened to you. But everything was going so well.”

“That’s Olivier for you. One minute you’re the centre of his existence, the next, you’re shit beneath his shoes. Gaston’s legged it.”

“Little bastard. Oh wait, that’s the other one. Have they all gone?”

“Yes. We might catch them at the Belgian border but as long as he and the others never appear in Paris again, we don’t need to worry too much. But there’s something that is worrying me, and I need to speak to Jean de Tréville about it.”

“Athos’s...I mean, d’Artagnan’s guardian?”

“Yes. He and Georges de Foix are old friends and I want to know what on earth has possessed Georges to support Guy de Rochefort’s cause. Even if her majesty counts him a friend, anyone with eyes can see he would make a very poor Prince Consort.”

“Have you tried asking Georges?”

“I have. He’s lying about the reasons, and I want to know why.”

“Why don’t I go?”

Clarisse frowned. “Why?”

“Because I could do with getting away from the palace for a day or two.”

“Then, of course. If you wish. But you shouldn’t let him make you do things you don’t want to.”

Sylvie did her best to appear positive. “But I want to do this. I’ve longed to meet the _comte_. Everyone speaks so highly of him. And I can tell him about Elodie’s scheme for the musketeers as well.”

“As you wish. I’ll have my notes placed in your office. It’s an easy day’s ride, so you can be back the day after tomorrow if you want. Don’t entrust anyone else with messages regarding Rochefort though. Only one of us, or her majesty. I think he’s paying off some of our staff for information.”

“I understand.”

Clarisse squeezed her hand. “Have some wine, and an early night. Don’t let him make you ill.”

Excellent advice, Sylvie thought. She had wine in her apartment, and she could drink it in comfort and privacy, rather than here where all her friends were looking at her with worried eyes.

She slipped out of the hall and went up the stairs to her apartment. The corridors were largely empty save for a guard here and there. Everyone else was either attending the ball or working behind the scenes on it.

She put her key in the apartment’s door, but jumped as she heard a soft, “Sylvie?”

Her hand went to the knife in her pocket before she realised who had spoken. She turned. “Athos. What are you doing here. You scared me.”

He was more tidily dressed than she had seen him before, almost as if he intended to go to the ball after all. “I’m sorry. Can we...talk?”

“I thought you weren’t interested in that, _monsieur_. Or in me.”

He spread his hands. “I’m sorry. I spoke hastily, and falsely. Please, may I have a second chance?”

His eyes were her downfall. His eyes and his voice. “All right. But mind your manners. My colleagues are out for your blood, and I won’t have the smallest qualm about letting them at you if you insult me again.”

Her servants had lit lamps and left them low for her. She turned one up and opened a cabinet where she kept the wine. Against her better judgement, she fetched down two glasses with the bottle.

He held out his hand, momentarily confusing her, but then realised he meant to open the bottle for her. She handed it to him, and took a seat on the sofa, watching his deft, elegant hands cut the wax and removed the cork. Why did the owner of such pretty hands have to be such an _arse_?

He poured for them both, and brought the glasses over. Sensing her mood, he wisely took a seat on an armchair, not next to her.

“So, speak,” she said, sitting straight-backed and glaring at him.

“I regret...sincerely regret my impudent, imprudent words. My _dishonest_ words. For I am interested in you, Sylvie. Too interested for safety.”

She tilted her head. “Go on.”

“Anne...Clarisse...was my first and only love. I have not had a relationship with any other since her. I have not wanted one. She burned me, and the scars still pull and ache.”

“So you have sworn off women. Why abuse me on account of your celibate melancholy?”

His eyes, his green, compelling eyes, held hers and she could not look away. “Because you are like the sun. It hurts to look at you, and yet, your warmth draws me to you. You feed my soul and taunt my cowardly heart. I hardly know what to do when you’re with me. When you asked, it was the coward who answered. The man who would rather drown himself in wine than think of the mess he’s made of his life.”

“All this because you would not believe her word about what your brother did?”

His mouth tightened. “You don’t understand. Thomas was the pet of the household. My parents’ favourite child. A sunny, spoiled, endlessly amusing child, who had grown to be a man apparently welcome to all. I believed Anne...but I didn’t want to. And he was dead at her hand, and every time I looked at her, all I could see was the blood, and Thomas at her feet. It was a nightmare I wished to wake from, still wish to wake from. Anne...I know now...was in need of comfort. I couldn’t give it. I was empty of all but sorrow and pain.”

He took a sip of the wine, swallowed it, and appeared to wait for it to work on him before he spoke again. “By the time I came back to myself, many days later, she had gone, and our engagement was done. I hated her for abandoning me, for not giving me time to grieve. Only later did I understand she was as bereft and broken as I was, only by what I had done to her, not what Thomas had.”

He hung his head. “When you asked me if I wanted to stay in Paris for you, all I could see was the glow of embers, a fire that would burst into life and burn me again. When I should have seen that you are not fire, but life. The sun in my too-meagre orbit, shedding generous solace on my selfish heart. I do not deserve you, and you do not deserve what I said. You should be wooed and wanted and decked with the verses of the finest poets, not listening to the mewling of a man long past his prime, and so lost to his true self.”

He set the wine glass down on the little table in front of them with a deliberate movement, as if it took effort. She picked hers up, and found her hand was shaking.

“So that is what I came to say. I’m sorry to have frightened you. I did not want another day to pass with you imagining you were not worth my attention. Any man, from the lowest wretch to the mightiest emperor, could not want a lovelier, wiser, or more amusing companion.”

He stood. “Where are you going?” she said, putting her wine glass down.

“Back to camp, of course.”

“Stay? I mean, if you want to.”

He crossed the floor to her and knelt on one knee in front of her. He bowed his head. “Can a planet want not to stay near the sun that holds it fast? Can the waves want not to bend towards the ocean which gives them life?”

“I take it that you mean yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“Then come and sit with me.”

He did so, and immediately put his arms around her, drawing her close. “I have been a fool.”

“Yes, you have. Don’t do it again. Also, kiss me.”

****************************

Having accepted his apology, and his warm and wonderful kisses, Sylvie decided the only thing to do was to invite him to her bedchamber, conveniently next to her office. There, she explored his body with her lips and fingertips. Wondered at his strong thighs, the slight softness of his belly, and the slim shoulders he usually concealed under leather jackets and erect posture. Her finger traced the scar on his upper lip. “A war injury?”

“A fall from a tree when I was five.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. But Papa told me I wasn’t allowed to cry. Nobles and men did not, he said.”

“That seems unfair.” She kissed the scar, and then his lips, while his hands roved carefully over her back, their calluses and the strength in his fingers thrilling her to her core.

And her core was...become rather warm.

“I must ride to your employer’s estate tomorrow.”

He blinked up at her, confused by the change of subject. “Do you want company?”

“If you like. But I can’t tell you why I must go.”

“I understand. I can ask him about this Musketeer plan.”

She grinned. “You mean, you might be willing to stay in Paris after all?”

“D’Artagnan no longer needs a tutor. And....” He cupped her backside in his hands and squeezed carefully. “There is much to draw me here instead.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you should demonstrate your ability to make it worth my while keeping you around, _monsieur_.”

Later, in his arms, she heard movement in her office. She pulled a robe around her shoulders and went in. Clarisse’s notes, delivered as promised. She sat and read them, since she didn’t want to risk taking them with her to de Tréville’s estate. It was concerning indeed that they might not be able to trust their staff, but there it was.

“Sylvie?”

Athos wore only his linen shirt, which came to mid-thigh. “Just notes on what I must ask de Tréville.”

“Is it by any chance concerning the _comte_ de Rochefort?”

She stared at him. “How...?”

“I’ve noticed something rather odd about _monsieur le comte_ ,” he said, drawing closer to her desk.   “Several times this past week, and again yesterday. He would have a brief conversation with one of the suitors, and then not long after, the suitor would pack up and leave. It happened with Edmond de l’Ouvrier just after the ceremony yesterday, in fact. I know the family, and Edmond, reasonably well—that’s why I noticed. Given how ambitious and grasping that family is, I thought it odd that the scion would make it this far, only to abandon his chances after Rochefort spoke to him.”

“I didn’t know about that,” she admitted, though it might explain the curious number of sudden departures from the rank of nobles. “You know him?”

“Slightly. I didn’t like what I saw, but then I have little time for my class. I doubt Jean can tell you more than I just have.”

“Do you know Georges de Foix?”

Now he was the one surprised. “Somewhat. I have been to his estate a number of times with Jean. But he and Jean.... Ah.”

“Ah?”

“I believe I know why you’re going to Jean’s estate.”

“You can’t say a word, and I can tell you no more. Go back to bed, dear. I won’t be long.”

He smiled at the ‘dear’, took her hand, kissed it, and went back to her chamber. She read the rest of the notes quickly, then used the lamp to set the paper alight, and threw the notes into the fireplace. If Athos’s inference was correct, then her visit to Jean de Tréville was even more urgent than they already knew.


	6. Chapter 6

“Elodie, wake up! Sylvie’s gone off with that worthless son of a bitch!”

Porthos had woken the moment Elodie’s chamber door had burst open, reaching blindly for a weapon he was not carrying. But when he saw it was Mistress Clarisse, he relaxed. However angry she was, she wouldn’t hurt her friend.

Elodie sat up, yawning. “Good morning, dear. Which worthless son of a bitch are we talking about now?” Porthos hid a grin behind his hand.

“Olivier. _Athos_ ,” she spat. “They’re going to Jean de Tréville’s estate. _And_ they spent the night together! Look at this!”

She shoved a note into Elodie’s hands. Porthos wrapped an arm around her waist and very carefully didn’t look at the paper, even though Mistress Clarisse glared at him as if he’d tried.

“Athos is a good person to take with her,” Elodie said calmly as she read, which made her friend’s eyes even angrier. “She can claim she wants to talk about the Musketeers, and if Athos is right, then his help could be valuable. Where is the little sewer rat this morning? The other one,” she said as Clarisse drew breath to abuse Athos again.

“Rochefort is in his rooms. I can’t bring this up to him or her majesty without proof.”

“Talk to the departed nobles?”

“It’ll take time, and they may not want to talk. God! Why didn’t I go? I thought she wanted to get away from that man, and rightly so!”

“Sounds like they patched up their differences, darling. I don’t think he’d hurt her in any way.”

“Athos would never harm a hair on a woman’s head,” Porthos said.

Clarisse’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“Did he ever beat you? Hurt you?”

“He broke my— Never mind. You keep your mouth shut about what you just heard, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said as politely as he could with his arm around a woman’s naked bottom.

“Let me get dressed, Clarisse. Have you had breakfast?”

“I’m too angry to eat.”

“Then join us and have something. I’m sure it will be all right. Wait until Sylvie returns, and keep watch on the _comte_. I suggest we don’t let him leave the palace.”

“Already arranged,” Clarisse said. “Even if Rochefort gives up his suit, I’ll have him detained.”

“He won’t,” Porthos said. “He wants it bad. You can practically smell it on the little weasel.”

Clarisse regarded him thoughtfully, as if he performed a clever trick. “Yes. Which one might understand, given his rank, but he’s the only one _quite_ that desperate. Elodie, excuse me, but I have some digging to do. Enjoy your breakfast.” She gave Porthos one more hard look, and walked out of the room.

Porthos pulled Elodie down for a kiss. “Good morning.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, good morning indeed. I hope you’re right about Athos. I don’t like the sound of this at all.”

****************************

“This is getting very strange,” Constance murmured. D’Artagnan, sitting across from her at her desk, waited patiently for an explanation. He was waiting for lunch, actually, but an explanation would be nice as well.

“That’s four more suitors who’ve gone home this morning, and that’s without any of us giving any of them large hints that they might find it less embarrassing to leave now, rather than later.”

“They worked it out for themselves?”

“Not this lot. They’re all senior nobles, so full of themselves. They think the sun shines out of their fundaments. They only get out of bed so dawn can break.”

D’Artagnan grinned. Constance had an earthy nature he adored. “Is it a problem though? Saves you having to talk to them.”

“I know. But why are they leaving? It’s almost like they’re being encouraged to go by someone else. Someone who has no business doing it, I mean.”

“Another suitor?”

“Maybe.” She wasn’t telling him everything, but he expected that now. He was privileged enough to be allowed to sit in her office while she conducted her affairs. He wasn’t supposed to know everything she was up to. “How long until lunch?”

She looked up. “You’re hungry? Again?”

“Sorry. Growing boy and all that.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a wonder _monsieur_ de Tréville can afford to keep you, the amount you eat. Come on, then.”

They were to have lunch with Elodie—and, d’Artagnan presumed, Porthos—in one of the small salons throughout the palace. Elodie and Porthos were waiting for them. Porthos grinned at him, while Constance kissed Elodie’s cheek. “All right?” Porthos said.

“Yes, it is,” d’Artagnan said, feeling happy with life just now. He looked to his left and scrambled to his feet, hissing at Porthos quietly as he did so to warn him. He bowed to the newcomer. “Your majesty.” Porthos did the same,

The queen smiled at them all. “Please, be at ease, gentlemen. I thought I’d join you for lunch if you don’t mind.” Servants immediately came to her side to ask what her pleasure was.

Once food had been requested, and wine glasses filled, Constance turned to the queen. “How is Louis?”

Her majesty winced. “Still poorly. Therese and Dr Lemay have been so attentive, and I know it’s just a cold, but he’s so miserable with it. Dear Aramis is with him now since Louis adores him, and settles better for him than for Marguerite at the moment. Of course, she’s not well either, poor dear. Aramis has taken her place all morning.”

“I didn’t realise Aramis was good with children.”

“I don’t know about all children, but he’s good with Louis, and seems to understand medicine as well.” The queen looked at d’Artagnan. “Does he physic you all at De Tréville’s estate?”

“Yes, your majesty. None of us ever see a doctor. He takes care of it all. Even sews up wounds and that kind of thing.”

She tilted her head in surprise. “Indeed.”

“Finest sewing you’ll ever see, your majesty. You won’t find better at court.”

That amused her greatly. “Perhaps we ought to have a little competition one day to see which has the better hand, Constance.”

“It would be worth it for the entertainment value,” Constance said, grinning at Elodie.

Despite Constance’s dig about his eating, d’Artagnan noted that all the women had healthy appetites, and the food was good. Not as fancy as it had been the night before, but tasty and of excellent quality.

Halfway through the meal, a man entered the salon, and Porthos gave d’Artagnan a nudge. “Watch out.”

“Rochefort,” the queen greeted her visitor, smiling warmly. “Do, please join us if you haven’t dined.”

Rochefort bowed. “I have, in fact, your majesty.”

“Then stay and take a glass of wine.”

“Willingly, thank you.”

A chair was found and a glass filled. As at the ball when d’Artagnan had met him, Rochefort’s gaze slid right over him and Porthos, as if their chairs were empty. “I came to enquire about the health of the dauphin, your majesty. Childhood ailments can be so worrying.”

“Thank you, Rochefort, for your kindness. My son is recuperating with the help of friends and his devoted governess.”

“I have the receipt for a remedy my family’s doctor used for such things, should Mistress Therese wish to avail herself of it. I mean no disrespect of course,” he said with a little bow of his head. D’Artagnan wanted to vomit at the obsequiousness.

“Therese never turns down receipts for remedies, as she believes in trying everything at least once.”

“Then I’ll arrange for it to be given to her. It was such a shame you had to curtail your presence at the ball on account of his illness.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, such a shame.” The queen’s cheeks glowed red, and d’Artagnan would bet his best silver bridle ornament that the reason she’d ducked out early was because Aramis was waiting for her in her bedroom. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh indeed. It was splendid. My compliments to you, Mistress Constance, on such a thoroughly pleasant evening.”

“Thank you, _monsieur_. I can’t take all the credit. My assistants did all the hard work.”

“Servants can be no better than the mind which guides them,” Rochefort said, looking straight at Porthos as he spoke. “Only a person with a true aesthetic sense can create such beauty.”

Constance smiled politely. “Again, thank you. Mistress Sylvie gave me some of the ideas. She’s a genius at placing decorations just so.”

“I have not had the pleasure of making the Mistress’s acquaintance.”

For some reason, Porthos made a low growl, so quiet that only d’Artagnan, and possibly Mistress Elodie, could hear it. But his glare was there for all to see. Rochefort paid no attention to him at all.

The lovely meal was now a chore, and by unspoken agreement, everyone let Rochefort drone on to her majesty, perhaps to let her see what a stuck up little wanker he was. Constance made her excuses to her queen as soon as she could on the grounds that she had so much work to do, and Elodie also excused herself, leaving Rochefort with the queen all to himself.

D’Artagnan and Porthos had to amuse themselves and go back to camp, with their lady friends genuinely too busy to talk that afternoon, though they knew they would be welcome to have supper with them that evening.

“What up with you?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos as they walked back to their camp.

“That bastard didn’t have the pleasure of meeting Sylvie because he fucking walked right past her like she didn’t exist. Made the rounds of every other councillor, even Doctor Lemay, but he ignored her like she was a servant or something. He does it to us, okay, we’re nothing to him, but she’s second only to her majesty! They all are. But she’s got dark skin, and that’s all he sees.”

“Oh. That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Sylvie’s off riding in the country with Athos this morning, so she’s well out of it. Bastard,” Porthos couldn’t resist repeating.

“Athos? I thought he and Sylvie were fighting?”

Porthos suddenly grinned. “They might’ve started the evening that way, but they didn’t end it like that. He spent the night with her.”

“No! Athos? Good for him! And her,” d’Artagnan added hastily. “I guess we can tease him when he gets back tonight.”

“Tomorrow. He’s gone to see the boss about the Musketeers. I think he’s gonna join us.”

“That’s wonderful...hang on, why is Sylvie with him? She’s a busy woman. They all are.”

“Maybe she don’t like the smell of weasel while she and Athos are courting.”

D’Artagnan nodded. That made sense. Kind of. At the same time, he had the feeling he didn’t know everything that was going on, and it bothered him a bit. On the other hand, it was hardly unusual for him to feel that way, so he didn’t dwell on it for too long.

****************************

To Sylvie’s delight, Athos not only made no comment on the fact she rode in the male style, but he also set a pace that made no concessions to the supposed fragility of her gender, an idea she loathed and one her majesty was actively trying to eradicate at court.

Of course, the swift pace was somewhat offset by the frequent stops to drink water, eat a little bread, and kiss while stretching their legs. “Why, _monsieur_ , one would almost suspect you of stopping so often for nefarious reasons,” she said after the third such little break.

“Of course not, madame. The horses must rest and take water, as do we.” The sly half-smile gave the lie to his words, as did another kiss.

They took their lunch at an inn barely two leagues from de Tréville’s estate, so not to embarrass the _comte_ ’s household by not having anything prepared, since she and Athos were not expected. She was travelling incognito for discretion and security, and the two of them were posing as a decorous married couple. She was not unarmed, and Athos had recovered his weapons from bond for the duration. Nevertheless, travelling with only one guard on these roads was risky even for an ordinary husband and wife. Sylvie was aware what a prize she would be if captured by brigands.

Fortunately, the only danger was from the somewhat indifferent meal served at the inn, and wine even Athos wouldn’t touch. He pushed away the mug with a disdainful look. “We’ll dine better tonight, I promise, even without warning.”

“I hope so,” she said, suppressing a foul-tasting burp. “They need a new cook.”

“The owner’s wife left him because of ill-treatment. She was much more talented.”

“I wish you’d told me that before we ate there, _monsieur_ ,” she said, glowering at him over making her give good silver to a wife-beater.

“The man has daughters,” Athos said, not discomfited by her disapproval. “And is in bad health. When he dies, they inherit. The inn is worth patronising for that reason.”

“Ah. Then I wish he would hire a better cook.”

“That,” he allowed, “would certainly help everyone, including his children.”

They rode swiftly to the estate, reaching it less than an hour later. The _comte_ de Tréville came to the stairs to greet them as they dismounted. “Athos! What are you doing back here? Madame,” he said, bowing to her.

“Jean, this is Sylvie Boden, Mistress of the Household. Sylvie, Jean, _comte_ de Tréville.”

De Tréville walked down the stairs to offer his hand.  “Mistress, you honour us.”

Athos took her horse’s reins. “Mistress Sylvie has urgent need of discreet conversation with you, Jean. I’ll stable the horses while you two go inside.”

The _comte_ took her arm and led her into the house. It was a venerable building, sound but without much in the way of lavish decor. Sylvie rather liked it, for all she loved beautiful things as well. “You’ll stay the night, Mistress Sylvie?”

“Yes, if we can. You don’t need to have two rooms prepared.”

De Tréville looked at her but showed no reaction to what she had implied. “Ah. Then let me just let my housekeeper know, and we can have some wine in the library.”

He took her hat and cloak and other things she didn’t need immediately, and bid her enter the large, clearly heavily used library off the hall. She was immediately drawn by the large collection of books on medicine and herbs which appeared well-thumbed and current. Was it the _comte_ who had the interest, or Aramis, she wondered.

De Tréville returned quickly, followed by an elderly footman with a tray containing wine and glasses. The man set the tray down on the desk, bowed to her, and left. “Please, do come sit, madame.”

“Please, call me Sylvie. May I call you Jean?”

He smiled. “That would be a great pleasure for me.” He poured out three glasses of wine and passed one to her. “Now, what is so urgent that one of the Queen’s own councillors must ride to me, instead sending a note?”

“Have you spoken to General de Foix recently?”

“Georges? Not in about a year. His estate is less than two hours’ ride from here, but he was somewhat unwell last Christmas, which is when we usually see each other. Why?”

“Before I answer that, do you know Guy, _comte_ de Rochefort?” The face he pulled told her he certainly did. “Now, what do you know of a connection between de Foix and Rochefort?”

He frowned. “There is none, that I know of, other than they both worked for her majesty when she was newly returned from Spain. Rochefort isn’t really Georges’ kind of fellow, though he was useful and efficient at what he did for the queen. I can’t imagine they’d had any reason to speak since Georges retired six years ago.”

“Then what do you think of de Foix being Rochefort’s enthusiastic sponsor as a suitor?”

De Tréville had been taking a sip of wine, and she thought the poor man would choke.

“What does Lucie think?” he asked after he wiped his beard with his handkerchief.

“Lucie?”

“Georges’ sister. They’re inseparable. Is she one of Rochefort’s supporters too?”

“I’ve never met Lucie. I didn’t know she existed until this moment. She’s not at court now.”

“That I find...odd. And a little worrying, frankly.”

“Perhaps she remained to run his estate?” Athos said, walking into the room. He picked up the third glass of wine and took a position beside the desk, leaning on the wall. It seemed to be a favourite position from the ease with which he stood.

“He has a manager,” de Tréville said. “De Foix would not undertake something like this without consulting her. She’s a very capable, brave young woman and he values her judgement very highly. I don’t know if she knows Rochefort but....”

“She wouldn’t care for him if she did?” Athos said.

“Not in the slightest.”

“There’s something else,” Sylvie said. “We, that is, Athos suspects and I agree, that Rochefort seems to be preternaturally good at convincing his rivals to desert the field. At least, a number of them have disappeared after a little chat with the man.”

“He’s in the second round? Of course he is,” de Tréville said, shaking his head. “Dear God. The idea of him as Prince Consort....” He glanced at Athos.

“Quite,” Athos said.

“And do you think it’s possible that Rochefort is somehow influencing suitors to quit?”

“Yes.”

She liked de Tréville. He didn’t waste time trying to be polite when she needed bluntness.

“So, what do we do? I have no proof to take to her majesty, but it’s alarming to think he could manipulate matters so much that he could win the ring simply by removing the competition.”

“I think I should visit Georges’ estate and speak to Lucie. I can do that in an afternoon and return with my report.”

“We should go with you,” Athos said.

“Your duty is to Mistress Sylvie, Athos. Stay here and protect her.”

“I don’t need—” Sylvie started to protest, but her host raised his hand.

“I’m sure you don’t, madame, and I meant no insult. But if there is something going on at the De Foix mansion, I would rather you were safe here.”

“But in that case, you must take Athos. Please, Jean. I would feel much easier.”

The two men exchanged glances. “She outranks you,” Athos said dryly.

“Indeed. Then I will. Athos, get two fresh horses. Why didn’t you bring one of the others as well?”

“They, ah...have been making themselves of use to other ladies of the council.”

“Dear God,” de Tréville muttered. “Get moving then. I’ll meet you at the stables.” Athos tipped his hat and left. “Are you quite sure, Sylvie? We are without my usual cadre of trained soldiers.”

“Just tell me where you keep your weapons, Jean, and otherwise, I shall be content with your library to entertain me.”

“As you wish. I’ll have Rafael give you all the help you need. We will return before sunset, to dine together.”

He bowed and left. Sylvie hope they would have a fruitful journey. Otherwise, there was little hope of thwarting Rochefort and she was more and more convinced that this was necessary.

****************************

“You and the Mistress of the Household, eh?”

“Apparently so,” Athos said, tightening the girth strap on his mount.

“And how does d’Artagnan fare?”

“He’s in the second round, no thanks to my former fiancé now in the position of Mistress of the Guard.”

“Good God. You mentioned other ladies?”

Athos got it over with, because de Tréville was going to explode however carefully he was told. “D’Artagnan has made himself congenial to the Mistress of the Bedchamber, and Porthos has made himself almost indispensable to Elodie, Mistress of the Army. Her majesty wishes to revive the Musketeers, and Porthos is central to that plan, according to Mistress Elodie.”

“Ah. That’s much better news—”

“And Aramis is sleeping with the queen.”

De Tréville paused as he was about to mount. “What? Athos, tell me you’re joking!”

“I can’t. We should go, Jean.”

“Hang on—”

“The sooner we go, the sooner we can return and you can swear at me in comfort.”

De Tréville narrowed his eyes in a way that Athos had learned meant his fuse was short—and lit. “I will expect more information.”

“As you wish.”

Travelling at a decent speed on horseback precluded easy conversation, for which Athos was thankful, though the pain was only delayed, not eradicated. At the gates of the de Foix estate, which Athos knew very well, they were admitted without difficulty, and all seemed normal at first.

Until they tied up their horses in the stable and went to the rear door, as usual. There, a man unknown to either of them, wearing a frogged coat and an impressive sneer, challenged them. “Who are you and what is your business, _messieurs_?”

“I am the _comte_ de Tréville, and this is the _comte_ de La Fère,” de Tréville said, using Athos’s title as he very rarely ever did. “I have come to see mademoiselle Lucie. She and her brother are old friends of mine.”

“The mademoiselle is not at home,” the man said. “And the general is in Paris.”

“I missed your name, _monsieur_.”

“I am Jacques, the butler.”

“Well, _monsieur_ , be so kind as to tell me where Lucie is at this present time.”

“I cannot do that, _monsieur_.”

“The _comte_ asked you a question,” Athos said, putting his hand on his sword. “Answering it would be wise.”

Jacques drew himself up. “I am not at liberty to disclose Mademoiselle de Foix’s location at present. It is a matter of delicacy.”

“Is she ill? In trouble?” de Tréville snapped. “Does her brother know she is absent?”

“I cannot answer these questions, _monsieur_. I suggest you return next week. The general will return then.”

De Tréville glared, then stomped back _en route_ to the stables, Athos at his side. “Like hell I’ll wait for Georges to come back. I’m going with you to Paris. Looks like there’s more than one mess I need to sort out there.”

Athos said nothing, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “Was Rochefort loyal, did you think?”

“To whom?”

“The queen. To France.”

“Other than his uncanny ability to insert himself into any conversation I or anyone else was having with her majesty, I can’t say. If pushed I would say his first loyalty was to Guy de Rochefort, but that’s only my gut feeling.”

“I trust your gut more than I trust Rochefort.”

De Tréville grunted, and mounted his horse.

****************************

It was fortunate in a way that Sylvie was there while de Tréville expended his temper over the situation with Aramis and the queen. De Tréville’s bone-deep courtesy towards any woman, together with his respect for Sylvie’s position, meant he could not vent his spleen quite as loudly or in such salty language as he would have done if Athos were alone with him.

And while it was unpleasant to have caused such worry and anger, nothing de Tréville said was different from what Athos had already thought or said to Aramis himself. Sylvie pointed out that there were no legal implications, since it was not treason—the queen was unmarried. The two of them were being discreet and thus far had not upset any suitors enough for them to make a fuss.

“And on Friday night, the ring will choose a candidate, and her majesty will decide if that man is someone she wants to marry. If so, Aramis is wise enough, I’m sure, to leave without fuss, and if not, then...her majesty can decide what to do about their relationship.”

“This kind of thing never ends well,” de Tréville insisted.

“I told him that,” Athos said.

“You be quiet. You should have brought him home tied up, if necessary.”

Sylvie laughed. “A man that pretty should only be tied up for recreational purposes.”

Both the men stared at her in horror, although Athos also felt hot, and his breeches grew a little tighter.

When de Tréville recovered his composure, he said, “You may find this amusing, but I have no wish to see one of my dearest friends on the scaffold because someone in the court takes a misliking to the matter and accuses him of treason or something else. Because it’s all too easy for a favourite to fall, Sylvie.”

“I’m sure, but her majesty is not like that. She’s a loyal friend, and devoted to those she loves. Aramis is safe with her.”

“I hope you’re right,” de Tréville said. “We should retire. I want to make an early start, and catch Georges without Rochefort around.”

“I hope you’re right about the queen and Aramis, too,” Athos whispered in Sylvie’s ear that night. “I wish it was Saturday, and this matter over one way or the other.”

“Me too. Did you mention the Musketeer plan?”

“Briefly. He was, uh, distracted. Mistress Elodie will want to talk to him, I’m certain.”

“Yes. But Georges de Foix first. I don’t like what you told me about his sister’s absence one little bit.”


	7. Chapter 7

Constance was with the queen going over some staffing changes, when a footman ran into the room without knocking. “Your majesty! Come quickly, the dauphin is seriously ill!”

The queen stood and ran after the footman, and Constance flew after her down the corridor the short distance to the nursery. There she found Aramis and Marguerite on the floor, holding a vomiting Louis.

“Send for Doctor Lemay and Mistress Therese,” she snapped at the footman.

“They’re already on their way, Mistress,” the lad said.

Constance registered the answer as she dropped to the floor beside the queen and the others. “What happened? Who was in charge of him?”

“I was,” Aramis said. His face was white. “He was happy, just coughing a lot. I gave him the honey and peppermint that Mistress Therese left for him to sooth the cough. He began to vomit a few minutes later. But he’s had it before.”

Constance rose to pick up the small bottle and the water glass Aramis must have used. She sniffed it. “That’s what it smells of, mint and honey. It’s a common remedy.”

“We should make him vomit more,” Aramis said, “if it’s the honey that has made him sick.”

“We should wait for the doctor,” Constance said, glaring at him. The man was kind, but hardly trained.

“Of course.” He moved away, and stood, hugging himself.

“Where is he?” Therese ran to the child to examine him. Louis began to convulse. “He’s been poisoned. Salt and water, quickly.”

Constance flicked a hand at the young footman, who ran off to fetch the items. Doctor Lemay ran over to help as well, so she stepped out of his way.

“What is going on?”

She turned and gritted her teeth at the new arrival. “ _Monsieur_ Rochefort, this is no place for you.”

“I only came because I thought I might help. What is wrong?”

“The dauphin is ill. You should leave.”

“I shall stay out of the way,” he said, which made her want to slap him, but it wasn’t the place for a row.

Lemay was quizzing Aramis, while sniffing the honey and peppermint mixture. He looked puzzled, but the footman returned just then with the salt and water, and Lemay and Therese set to administering it to the little boy.

It was all horrible and painful for him, and even when they were done, Louis still looked so very ill. “I’ll take him to the infirmary, your majesty,” Therese said. “We can care for him better there.”

The queen nodded, her face ravaged with tears. She followed them out, as did Rochefort, to her intense irritation.

Constance remained to set the room to rights, ordering the footman to fetch more help to do so. She picked up an overturned chair. “Marguerite, I thought you were looking after Louis this morning.”

“I was, but I felt so ill, Aramis offered again. I didn’t think there was any harm. Her majesty was happy to have him look after the dauphin yesterday.”

“She should have been told.” Though it hardly mattered. “Aramis, don’t leave the palace. In fact, you should go to the infirmary when you’re done, in case they need information from you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said miserably. Even his bow was pitiful. Constance would have felt sorry for him if she wasn’t so terribly worried about Louis, and whether he could really have been poisoned by the same remedy Constance’s own mother had used on her when she was but a child herself.

Once the carpets were clean, she shooed everyone out, including Marguerite, and had the door locked and guarded. Then she went to the infirmary to be with her friend, the queen. Anne would need all her friends now.

****************************

Aramis stood in the corner of the infirmary, watching the court physician, the Mistress of the Herbals, and various servants working furiously to save the life of the most precious three-year-old in France, while Constance hugged his mother who stood with hands clenched in front of her, her eyes large and red. The emetic had purged what was left in Louis’ small stomach, and now all they could do was keep him comfortable and let him drink water and cooled tea.

He couldn’t understand how the boy could have been poisoned, and couldn’t believe that was the cause of the sudden illness, though he had to admit the sudden onset and the symptoms were strongly suggestive of poison.

He also couldn’t understand what the hell the _comte_ de Rochefort was doing here, sniffing at the honey mixture and glass taken from the nursery, as if he had the smallest knowledge on the subject of poison or treating it. The man made his skin itch on a good day, and this was far from being a good day.

“What was used in this honey, did you say?” Rochefort asked, holding the honey.

The Mistress of the Herbals turned and glared at him, no doubt as much at a loss to explain his presence as Aramis was. “Peppermint. Why are you—”

“This isn’t peppermint.” He sniffed at it again. “I know this. It’s a herb I know. I just can’t...oh I know, pennyroyal.”

Mistress Therese snatched the bottle from him and sniffed at it. “Edouard, you should look at this.”

Doctor Lemay took the bottle, sniffed it, then dabbed a finger in the honey and tasted it, before quickly spitting it out into a bucket. “Pennyroyal oil. Therese, you would never—”

“Of course not. What do you take me for?”

“Pennyroyal? That’s deadly,” Rochefort said. “No one would use it...unless they wanted to harm the child. To kill him.”

The queen gasped and stumbled, but Constance caught her. Aramis took a step forward, then stopped himself as Constance shot him a look. Yes. Of course. This was not the place.

“How could pennyroyal oil get into the dauphin’s medicine?” Rochefort asked. “If it was not provided by the Mistress of the Herbals, I mean.”

“It had to have been added after I gave it to the governess,” Therese said, mouth thin with anger. “You,” she said, pointing to the footman at the door. “Fetch her here.”

The footman ran for the door and disappeared. “Was she the one in charge of the dauphin when he became ill?” Rochefort asked. “I understood _monsieur_ d’Herblay was minding him yesterday.”

“I was with him this morning when he became seriously ill,” Aramis said, not liking the way Rochefort looked at him at all. “Marguerite was still quite unwell this morning, and as I had nothing better to do, I offered to watch Louis again.”

“You mean his highness the dauphin,” Rochefort corrected. Aramis bit his tongue. “I understand you claim to have some medical knowledge yourself, _monsieur_.”

“A little. I learned from my mother, and later my father. I’m mostly self-taught.”

“Indeed. You were born in a brothel, were you not? Your mother was a whore?”

Aramis took a step towards the man, his hand going to his side before he remembered he had no weapon, and killing a noble in the infirmary was a bad idea. “Mind your mouth, _monsieur_ , when you use it to speak of my mother.”

“Come, come, _monsieur_ , I speak nothing but the bare truth,” Rochefort said condescendingly. “And is it not the case that prostitutes such as your mother sometimes use pennyroyal oil to bring on a miscarriage?”

“Rochefort, what are you saying?” The queen drew herself up, shrugging off Constance’s arms.

Rochefort bowed. “I’m merely pointing out that _monsieur_ d’Herblay had the knowledge and the opportunity to add a lethal poison to the dauphin’s remedy. Perhaps he had the oil because he was worried he might have need of it—say, to end a pregnancy unwisely begotten on a woman here in Paris.”

“Rochefort, be quiet!” the queen snapped. He bowed. She turned to Aramis. “Is it true? Was your mother....” Her cheeks coloured. “A whore?”

“Yes, a prostitute, your majesty. But I would never administer—”

“And you were with Louis all morning? No one else?”

“No, but the honey—”

“Constance, send for Clarisse and guards. I want this man placed under arrest until further enquiries have been made. Place him in the cells.”

Aramis held up his hands. “Majesty—”

“Silence!” Her eyes were not longer worried, but furious. “If it is determined you have harmed my son, you will die the most excruciating death ever conceived. Rochefort, please...go away.”

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing again. He sneered at Aramis as he backed out of the room.

“Constance, do as I ordered.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Constance’s glance at him was more worried than angry, but for whom, Aramis didn’t know.

All he did know was that he had good reason to be worried about himself just now.

****************************

Sylvie and her companions rode into the Palace ground around one o’clock, where she was astonished to find their way barred even before they dismounted. “What is going on? I am one of her majesty’s councillors.”

The guard bowed. “You may pass, Mistress. These men may not. Her majesty’s orders. No one goes in or out.”

She turned to de Tréville. “Wait here. I’ll go in and find out what’s happening.”

De Tréville tipped his hat. “Of course, madame.”

She handed her horse to a stable lad and went up the stairs to find one of her colleagues. “Where is Mistress Clarisse?” she asked a guard.

“In the Great Hall, Mistress. With Mistress Elodie.”

She walked quickly to the hall, which was deserted apart from the two women sitting at the high table with notes in front of them, and several footmen standing well away from them in readiness to serve. “Clarisse? What’s going on?”

Her friends looked drawn, worried, but also angry. “Someone tried to kill the dauphin. Aramis is suspected and has been arrested,” Clarisse said.

She put her hand over her heart in raw shock. “Aramis? But he wouldn’t hurt the child. Or any child.”

“That remains to be determined. His friends are being held here while they are questioned and searched. Where is Athos?”

“Outside. He was with me, and so was Jean de Tréville. He cannot have had anything to do with it.”

“Even so, his belongings in camp as those of the others, have all been searched. Come with me, dear. Her majesty is distraught beyond reason.”

Elodie rose. “I’ll speak to _monsieur_ de Tréville and question Athos, and find you later, Clarisse.”

“Of course,” Clarisse said, getting to her feet. “Under no circumstances is Athos to enter the palace until further notice.”

“I understand.”

Clarisse led the way to the queen’s apartments, quickly explaining what they knew. “And has any of the poison oil been found?”

“No,” Clarisse said, frowning. “And Aramis has had no opportunity to dispose of it.”

“And what motive?”

“The _comte_ de Rochefort is suggesting he was forestalling the queen’s pregnancy.”

“By killing Louis? Clarisse, that’s nonsense.”

“Yes, I know. But there is a haze of accusations and known facts, and for the moment, her majesty has no idea what the truth is. Aramis had to be arrested and held.”

“Of course. Is Louis going to recover?”

“We don’t know. If he dies....”

“God forbid.”

“God has nothing to do with it. Tell me quickly what you learned from de Tréville.”

****************************

Mistress Elodie walked out to the stable yard to meet them. Athos and de Tréville had not even been allowed to dismount, but she gave orders that they do so, then beckoned them to walk with her towards the gardens. “Aramis has been arrested for trying to poison the dauphin,” she explained.

Athos straightened up from his lean on the pommel. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You might say so, Athos, and I would agree, except we know he had the knowledge, he was with the child when he was poisoned—indeed, he admits he gave the poison in a cough remedy, all unknowing—and the _comte_ de Rochefort has dared to suggest a motive which some may find credible.”

“Rochefort is a liar,” Athos ground out.

“I don’t disagree. But until we find out who gave the child a lethal drink, or planned it so Aramis did, her majesty has no choice but to imprison him and search for accomplices. You, Athos, are probably not under suspicion, but you can see how it looks.”

“Porthos? D’Artagnan?”

“Safe, but under guard in the palace. You, _monsieur_ , are the _comte_ de Tréville?”

“Yes, sorry,” Athos said, remembering his manners. “Jean, Elodie, Mistress of the Guard. Mistress Elodie, the _comte_ de Tréville.”

She shook de Tréville’s offered hand. “Under different circumstances I would be very glad to meet you, _monsieur_ le _comte_. But why are you here? You can’t have heard about this.”

“No, indeed. I’ve come because I hold grave fears for the safety of General de Foix’s sister, and I need to speak to him without the presence or knowledge of the _comte_ de Rochefort.” Athos was impressed how de Tréville managed not to spit as he said the name. “Or any of Rochefort’s people.”

“Tricky. The general is constantly surrounded by his acolytes. Also,” she said, lowering her voice though there was no one close, “we fear some of our staff have been suborned to assist him.”

“You mean, repeat gossip so he can discover compromising information,” Athos said.

“Yes. _Monsieur_ , we have had some strangely rapid departures from the ranks of the suitors.”

“Athos told me,” de Tréville said, “and that he believes Rochefort is behind it. Mistress, Lucie de Foix’s situation could be perilous. I don’t really care if a few nobles with dirty linen retreat rather than have it aired.”

“It’s all linked,” Athos murmured. “Rochefort is clearing the field.”

“Yes, yes. De Foix?”

Elodie bit her lip. “The queen has given orders that no one goes in or out.” She looked around. “But I might have a way around that.”

Which was how, a few minutes later, they found themselves in a quiet grove in the palace gardens, apparently eating a picnic brought out to them by two footmen, one of whom bore quite an astonishing resemblance to de Tréville—at least at a distance, and when wearing de Tréville’s best formal armour, his hat and cloak. And if that footman and de Tréville disappeared among the bushes for a few minutes, emerging wearing each other’s clothes, no one remarked on it. At least, no one who didn’t already know what Elodie was up to.

The weak point was the two servants, but both had worked in the palace since de Tréville himself was a councillor, both were loyal to her majesty out of a personal love, rather than mere duty, and neither of them had a good word to say about Rochefort. Although, as always with good servants, both had to be pressed to say anything at all about a guest in the palace.

Athos had ample opportunity to find out at least one of the footman’s views, as the man who had swapped with de Tréville remained to share the picnic with him while his comrade went back to the Palace with the disguised _comte_ and Elodie. She had reasoned the guards rarely knew the palace servants well, and the presence of her and the other footman would mean no one would think to look twice. They only had to get de Tréville in and out once. Once Elodie was back in the palace, she would demand to see de Foix without Rochefort or any of his servants, and once alone with him, she would bring de Tréville into the room and hopefully learn the truth of Lucie’s situation.

Athos didn’t eat much. He held an apple absently, not seeing it, as he fretted about de Tréville, and Aramis, and his other friends. It was plain as the nose on his face that Aramis had been set up. But the queen would not necessarily see things as others did, having been born in one court, lived much of her childhood in another, and finally returned to France to live under a new one of her own construction. Assassins were a ruler’s constant fear. Politicking and gossip and a little discreet blackmail here and there, was so routine as to be utterly beneath a queen’s notice. That Rochefort was a creep, was not enough to destroy his reputation in her majesty’s eyes.

That Aramis might have tried to murder her only and most beloved child, was more than enough to destroy his.

Rochefort wasn’t a fool, whatever his other faults. He knew how courts worked. He knew what he could get away with. And he knew exactly how to play on the queen’s fears to make her doubt her lover and his friends, no matter how congenial she found them.

The footman, Paul, had good information about which of his colleagues had taken Rochefort’s silver. “But they don’t mean harm, _monsieur_. All the suitors in the palace had been paying bribes and some feel, so long as they take everyone’s money, there is nothing wrong about it.”

Athos had to smile a little at that. “True. Would any of them be enticed to, say, switch one bottle of medicine for another?”

“ _Monsieur_!”

He thought the old man would have a heart attack and had to help him drink some water before he recovered. “I take it that this means ‘no’.”

“ _Monsieur_ , I would cut off my hand before harming any one, let alone the dauphin or her majesty!”

“Yes, but not all servants are as loyal as you, Paul.”

“Such a one would be rooted out and removed by us. We don’t want such creatures around us or the queen.”

Athos found this touching, but he was cynical enough from experience—God, had Thomas not been a lesson in not taking anything at face value?—that ‘such creatures’ were hard to eradicate, and hard to detect. Especially if they were insinuated into the staff well in advance, and with the queen having been widowed for more than two years, predicting that she might wish to marry again was hardly a feat beyond even a simpleton.

He flung the apple down as he heard footsteps. “Conceal yourself,” he whispered, and Paul scuttled into the bushes.

“It’s me,” de Tréville called. Elodie wasn’t with him, but the other footman was. “Let me change again, then I’ll report.”

The other footman began to clear up, but when Paul emerged and helped him, Athos bid them remain a little while, in case de Tréville wanted a message passed back to Elodie. But de Tréville said there was no need. Elodie knew his plans, and had put two soldiers she could trust at their disposal.

“Lucie is being held hostage at Rochefort’s house in Paris, to secure Georges’ silence and his support for the man’s suit. He wept, Athos. That’s how upset he is by the whole matter, and what Rochefort has been doing. He was about to go to the queen with the story, which would have condemned Lucie to death.”

“So we rescue her?”

“Yes, though it won’t be simple. I would give my right arm for Porthos, and both of them for Aramis. But it’s beyond Elodie’s powers to release them, at least yet, and we must move before Rochefort acts again.”

“We need Sylvie,” Athos said. “She would be invaluable, and beyond suspicion.”

“A woman?”

Athos tipped his head at de Tréville. “You really don’t know these councillors at all, do you?” He stood and yelled. “Paul! You forgot something!”

The two footmen were not so far away, and Paul ran back, puffing as he arrived. “ _Monsieur_? What did we—”

“Sorry, it was a pretext only. Please take this message to Mistress Elodie. We need to speak to her again.”

The footman bowed. “Of course, _monsieur_.”

****************************

Sylvie felt awful for leaving Clarisse and Elodie and Constance with the burden of supporting their heartbroken queen, not to mention Louis still gravely ill in the infirmary. But she could do more by going with Athos and de Tréville than she could by remaining, and Clarisse even told her to go.

“Athos is a poor lover but an excellent soldier,” she said. “Rochefort must be stopped.”

So that was how Sylvie found herself hiding in a Paris apartment de Tréville owned but rarely used, while Athos and de Tréville surveyed the residence where Lucie was being held captive. Her only company were four hand-picked soldiers who had left the palace as her ‘guard’.

Athos and de Tréville returned an hour later, discouraged. “There’s no way to tell that she is or is not being held there,” de Tréville reported. “The place is closed up tight, but that’s not unusual in Paris. The house next door is empty. The street is not busy at all.”

“If we attack prematurely, Rochefort will be alerted,” Sylvie said.

“Exactly. Athos?”

“How are you at climbing roofs, Sylvie?”

“Pretty good, actually,” she said, grinning at her lover.

“You’re not serious,” de Tréville spluttered. “A councillor? On a roof?”

“A councillor now, a mischievous young girl once upon a time, with a father who encouraged me, I’m sad to say.”

Her light words did not ease de Tréville’s worry. “Sylvie, if you were hurt, or God forbid, killed, her majesty would have our heads.”

“And I would be sorry if you were hurt or killed,” Athos said, touching her hand.

“It was your idea! Anyway, I’m lighter, younger and faster than either of you. If I disguise myself, I can pass myself off as a cheeky Parisian out on a lark, so long as none of them have met me before. I dare say Rochefort couldn’t describe me even under torture.”

De Tréville frowned at Athos, who explained. “Rochefort is the kind of noble for whom commoners and anyone with dark skin simply doesn’t exist.”

“Ah. Useful in our situation, nasty for you, my dear. But I still think we can’t risk it.”

“And I can’t risk a woman’s life, or that of my queen if that bastard isn’t stopped right now,” she snapped, annoyed at being treated as if she was helpless. “You wanted me, so use me.”

“She has a point, Jean,” Athos said.

“Very well. The moon is just past full tonight, so you should have enough light. All we want you to do is confirm she’s there. Don’t attempt to rescue her.”

“Why, is she crippled?”

Athos hid his mouth behind his hand but his eyes revealed his smile. De Tréville glared briefly before remembering her position. “No, but the windows will be locked. You won’t be able to get in.”

“Of course not,” Sylvie said, deciding that what de Tréville didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.

“I should go with you to hold ropes and such,” Athos said. “I can dress as a Parisian as easily as you.”

“And how will you disguise your voice, _monsieur_ le _comte_?”

“Why, missus, I’m surprised you ‘ave to ask,” Athos said, in a passably good imitation of Porthos, before switching back to his usual elegant drawl. “You forget I was a soldier.”

“And would have made as good a spy as Aramis did, I venture,” de Tréville said. He winced. “I didn’t mean—”

“Aramis is beyond suspicion,” Sylvie said, patting his hand. “He would never.”

“No, he would not,” Athos said firmly. “Ever.”


	8. Chapter 8

The chains on his wrists and legs were uncomfortable, and the cell reeked of piss, shit, and worse. But Aramis didn’t care about his physical discomfort, or his surroundings. All he could think of was a little boy dying because of something he did, and his mother—Aramis’s lover, France’s _Queen_ —believing he had done it deliberately.

What of his friends? If—when—Aramis was executed for treason, what would happen to Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos? Even de Tréville? It was impossible they would escape without a stain on their reputations, if not something much, much worse.

He’d fretted and prayed, talking himself hoarse pleading with God to save Louis. There was no hope of saving himself, and he didn’t ask for that. He could never prove that he had not put the poison in the honey, and he _had_ been the one to give it to the boy.

But Louis was truly innocent, and if he died, the queen would suffer so much. Surely God did not mean to punish a devout, kind, and generous woman like her majesty, over Aramis’s sins?

He could only judge how long he’d been in the cell by how his body felt. He was very thirsty, somewhat hungry. There was no natural light in these cells, only an occasional flare of torchlight when the guards changed shifts.

He heard footsteps and clanking, and saw firelight. He assumed it was the guards again.

But the torchlight didn’t disappear, but grew brighter, the footsteps nearer. Suddenly the area outside the cells was bright, and Constance was there with a footman holding a food tray, another held a stool, and two guards.

Aramis scrambled to his feet. “Mistress Constance.”

“Open the door,” she said to the guard, who obeyed.

The footmen came in with the tray and stool, and left them on the floor before leaving the cell. “Lock the door and wait outside,” she said to the men, servants and guards alike.

They bowed and left, two of the torches left in holders outside the cell door. Constance sat on the stool and waved at him to sit too. She regarded him gravely. “How are you, Aramis?”

“How is the dauphin? Please, I must know.”

“He’s very ill. Lemay and Therese say the next day will be critical. If he survives that, then there is hope he will overcome this.”

“I am praying that he will. He has to.”

“Yes, he does. Are you hungry?”

“Thirsty, mainly.”

She handed him a water bottle from the tray, and he drank deeply, allowing the water to ease his burning throat. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said politely, handing it back.

“You should eat. They don’t pay a lot of attention to prisoners here. They don’t tend to be here long.” She removed the cover from a plate on the tray, and handed it to him with a spoon.

He took it, but didn’t touch it. “Why are you being so kind, Mistress?”

“For God’s sake, Aramis, call me Constance while we’re alone. The time for formality has passed. As to why, no one should be denied food or water, no matter what they’ve done.”

“I didn’t—”

She raised a hand. “Don’t. I am not here to try your case. Eat that, and I want to know the exact sequence of events as they happened this morning.”

“May I ask just one question, please?”

She pursed her lips. “Go on.”

“Who told Rochefort about my mother?”

“We presume he’s bribing the servants for gossip.”

“Constance, the only person who knew about my mother is Porthos. And if anyone tried to bribe him, you would know it, because they’d be walking around the palace missing an arm.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that? What about de Tréville?”

“No. Not because I’m ashamed of her, simply because it’s none of their business. Porthos has...his own secrets, which I learned, and replied in kind because that was only fair.”

“Right,” she said, frowning. “Eat, for heaven’s sake. We don’t have much time.”

He obeyed, though he had little appetite. The stew was good, the mashed potato filling. As he ate, he asked, “Where do you want me to start?”

“From when and where you woke up.”

“I was with her majesty in her room. It was seven, I believe. It’s her usual time to rise. Her maid woke her when she brought in the breakfast tray.  We dressed and then her majesty and I prayed together.”

Constance raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“You don’t pray with your lovers?”

“Er, no. Continue.”

“We ate breakfast in her room, then she told me she would be busy all morning and that I should ‘keep myself out of mischief’.” He smiled wistfully. “I had every intention of doing so. I went in search of Porthos and d’Artagnan but they were still abed. Or, at least, with someone who was.”

“And then?”

“I went to visit Louis in the nursery, to see how he was recovering. Marguerite was in a terrible state, blowing her nose and coughing, so I offered to take the child again for a few hours, which she agreed to. I asked what Mistress Therese had prescribed, and she indicated the honey and water on a table out of Louis’s reach, said it was honey and mint, and he could have it for the cough as needed. Then she left.”

“Did you see her again?”

“No. Not until Louis became ill about an hour later, about fifteen minutes after I gave him some honey and water. I called for help and she came running, I presume, from her bedroom.”

“Did you intend to give her majesty pennyroyal?”

“No!” He shoved away the plate and stared at her. “Constance, every prostitute knows how dangerous it is. They have...safer methods. And I would never drug her majesty or end any pregnancy without a woman’s consent. That’s...wicked. Truly wicked.”

“What if she had—or even has—become pregnant by you?”

“Then we would have discussed it. She couldn’t possibly know by now even if she had. And even if she is, the child is of her blood. It would be royal, even if she didn’t marry me.”

“You have that ambition?”

“No! God, no.” He shook his head. “I would never dream of such a thing. I know my place in life.”

“Hmmm.” She put her hand out for the plate, then looked around the cell. “Where do you...oh. I’ll have a bucket brought down. And water.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’ll leave the wine, though I shouldn’t. Misuse the bottle and there’ll be no help for you.”

“Take it. I don’t want suspicion cast on me again.”

“As you wish.” She stood.

“How is the queen? I hope...I hope she has her friends with her.”

“She does.” Her expression softened. “And so soon will you, I pray.”

“Pray for Louis and her majesty. I don’t matter.”

She crouched in front of him and grabbed his shirt. “Don’t say that,” she said, shaking him. “You do matter, and I will help you. Stop being such a martyr, and start thinking like a solder, Aramis. Live. Your friends need you.”

“My friends will likely die because of me.”

“No.” She stood. “If you remember anything else, shout for the guards and have them tell me. I will visit in the morning.”

He climbed to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, bowing. “You have been kinder than I could have hoped for.”

“Only because you don’t think much of us. But you’ll learn your lesson.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Stay strong, and have faith in us as well as God.”

“I will. I do.”

She called for the guards and footmen, and left without speaking to him again. A little while after they had all left, the guards and a footman returned not just with water and a bucket, but also a straw pallet with blanket and pillow. She had left the stool as well.

“You must be well in with the mistresses,” one of the guards sneered.

“They believe all prisoners should be treated well. Would that there were more people like them.”

****************************

“How is her majesty?” Constance asked when Clarisse admitted her to her office. Ninon was with her. Both women looked tired.

“Exhausted. Asleep, finally,” Ninon answered.

“Poor love. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Who does? Certainly not Louis.”

“I can think of at least one person,” Constance said, growling a little at the thought of Rochefort. But how could he have done it?

“What did Aramis say?” Clarisse asked.

“He said he found Marguerite apparently quite unwell, and offered to take over. That makes sense, Clarisse. He and the boy are very fond of each other.”

“Marguerite did not seem to me to be so unwell this morning.”

Constance had thought the same thing. “Colds are like that. You can’t think that she...she’s been with the boy since the queen had him in her womb! She would never—”

Ninon shook her head and Clarisse said, “No. At least, not in ordinary circumstances. But look at General de Foix and his sister.”

Constance nodded, a sick feeling in her stomach. “Could Rochefort have forced her to poison the honey? Through blackmail?”

“Yes, he could have, but where is the poison? It wasn’t in her room, the nursery, on Aramis, in his belongings nor on his friends or their belongings. No one entered the nursery from outside the room except Aramis. Therese even checked that the peppermint in the infirmary hadn’t been adulterated.”

“It wouldn’t take much to poison a little boy. A vial could be crushed, and the glass swept away.”

Clarisse stared at her, and then turned to Ninon. “I didn’t even think of that. I’ll have the carpet examined again.”

“And Marguerite?” Constance asked.

“Will need very careful handling,” Ninon said. “Don’t look so worried, dear.”

“How can I not with Louis so ill, and her majesty so upset? And Aramis is a good man. He shouldn’t be in the cells.”

“While he’s there, Rochefort has no reason to harm him,” Clarisse said coolly. “For the same reason, his friends should stay very low until the ceremony. Her majesty wants it brought forward, by the way. She’s sick of the entire business and the suitors and wants it over with, so it’s happening the day after tomorrow night.”

“You’re telling me now?” Constance said, slight hysteria in her voice. “Clarisse, I have so much to do.”

“No, you don’t. She wants it as informal and quick as possible. Just gather the men in the audience chamber that evening, and we can whip through them. There are only fifteen left, including Rochefort.”

“But what if Athos and de Tréville can’t rescue Lucie before then?”

Clarisse was unconcerned. “I’ll think of something else. Just do what the queen wants.”

“And if Louis dies?”

Ninon winced. “Let’s hope and pray that doesn’t happen, Constance.”

Hope and prayers was all that was left to them, it seemed. She didn’t think they were much use.

Disconsolate, she went to the guest quarters, where Porthos and d’Artagnan were sharing a room. It had been deemed unwise for either man to share the beds of Constance or Elodie for now, a decision which made none of them happy.

D’Artagnan leapt out of his chair when she entered. “Any news?”

“Yes, but I can’t tell you. Aramis is well, d’Artagnan. I saw him, took him food and water, and made sure he has something other than stone to sleep on or piss against.”

“Thanks for that,” Porthos said, also on his feet. The big man wasn’t smiling. “Athos? De Tréville?”

“Not in the palace,” she said. Porthos’s expression became grim. “I can’t say more than that, I’m sorry.”

“And the dauphin?”

“Still holding on, poor little chap.”

“Can we see Aramis?” Porthos asked.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Constance said, not sure if it was worth the anger it might cause the queen. On the other hand, Aramis was innocent, she was sure of it, and in a low mood. He could do with his friends. “The ring ceremony is in two nights from now. Her majesty just wants it over with.”

“I don’t care about the ring,” d’Artagnan said roughly. “I’m sick of it too and just want to leave the palace.”

“You can’t,” Constance said. “Not until the queen orders it, and that won’t happen until we clear you two. So be patient, please? I know it’s hard.”

Porthos groaned. “Wouldn’t mind, but he ain’t got no money to gamble with, and he’s a crappy reader,” he said, jerking his thumb at d’Artagnan.

“Read the books yourself if you’re so picky.”

“Nah. Like being read _to_. Don’t like reading.”

Constance suspected there was a reason for that, but didn’t want to embarrass the man. “It’s only for a couple of days, I’m sure. And you’re better off than Aramis.”

“How will you clear us?” d’Artagnan wanted to know. “Aramis was the only one in the room, and only he and Marguerite had access to the honey.”

“We’re looking at other suspects,” she said carefully. Neither of them had reason to think Rochefort could be behind it, and she didn’t want to start rumours or gossip about it. “Try not to worry.”

D’Artagnan threw up his hands and walked away. “One friend in prison, the other one missing. Why would we worry?”

“You’ll have to trust me, Charles. You too, Porthos. I’m on your side. I’m on Aramis’s side.”

“D’Artagnan, you gotta let her do her job,” Porthos said. “But if we could see him for even a couple of minutes, that would help,” he added politely.

“I’ll try,” she promised. “You’ve eaten?”

“Yeah. Food’s great,” Porthos admitted. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for cooperating. You could have been much more trouble.”

Porthos grinned. “You have no idea.”

“I have three brothers, _monsieur_. I do, in fact, have an idea. D’Artagnan? Please, don’t be angry with me.”

He came to her and took her in his arms, kissing her forehead. “I’m not angry with you. I’m just angry at the situation. The real poisoner.”

“You and me both. Anyway, once the ring ceremony is over and you two are cleared, then we can talk about you all staying in Paris.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Good. So, sleep well, both of you.”

D’Artagnan kissed her again, on the lips. “And you too, my lady.”

At least she had a reason to smile as she left the room.

****************************

The moonlight that de Tréville had promised vanished under clouds and rain just after sunset, so he wanted to call the sortie off. Sylvie wouldn’t hear of it, and Athos reluctantly agreed.

“The rain will cover any noise we made, and they will be less likely to suspect someone on the roof in this weather.”

“Yes, because it’s suicidal to even think of it,” de Tréville snapped. “You’ll slip and break your necks, and I’ll be the one swinging at the end of a rope because of it!”

“You make it sound like I’ve never done anything like this before, Jean,” Sylvie said. She was already dressed in ragged male clothing, with scarves to hide her abundant hair and placed around her neck to make appear this was her normal way of dressing. Athos had similarly benefitted from De Tréville and one of the guard’s making a foray to the market for second hand clothes, as well as some useful items that his apartment did not provide.

“Have you?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

“When I was fifteen.”

“And you are now, five and twenty?”

“Twenty-seven. Still limber though. Ask Athos.”

“God preserve us,” de Tréville muttered as Athos surveyed the ceiling. “If she dies and you don’t,” he said to Athos, “you will quickly wish you had.”

“Understood.”

“Just go there, find out if Lucie is really there, and return. We can raid the house in the morning.”

“Yes, I know the plan.” Whether Sylvie was going to follow it, was another question altogether. She alarmed him as much as she thrilled him, and he wasn’t used to that sensation at all.

They waited until close to midnight, to increase the chance of the entire household, including guards, being fast asleep. It was still raining when they left, bearing ropes, hooks, and a shuttered lantern. “How, exactly, do you plan to climb onto the roof of a three-storey house, madame?” he’d muttered to her as they left the apartment.

“It’s easy. You use another roof.” She laughed at his expression. “You’ll see.”

Her plan involved breaking into the house next door, which Athos had reported, appeared to be unoccupied. “She’ll be in the top storey, I think. They won’t want her jumping out of a lower window, or yelling for help,” Sylvie said as they walked with their cloaks over their heads. Two of the Palace guards followed at a discreet distance, as backup.

“Do you have an extensive criminal history, Mistress Sylvie?”

“I had some interesting friends, and I was an only child who wanted to do things. Papa believed what _Maman_ didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her, and so long as I didn’t hurt myself too badly, or anyone else at all, he didn’t want to know either. He bought me a gun, I taught myself to shoot, and I picked up how to use a sword by watching soldiers training.”

“Watching them from a roof, no doubt.”

“Exactly.”

The house was locked and barred, but Athos broke the lock on a small window at the rear, and Sylvie slithered in easily, opening a door to him. Once inside they climbed to the attic, they opened a dormer window which had an ornate—and fortunately sturdy—iron rail at the bottom. “I’ll go ahead,” he said, tying the rope to a beam in preparation for putting it around his waist.

“No, let me. I’m lighter and if I fall, you can haul me up. I don’t think I can haul you.”

“Sylvie, darling, you can’t.”

“I can, and I can even order you to let me.”

She stared at him until he relented, handing her the rope. He did check it was knotted securely. “You know how to open a window from the outside?”

“Athos, please.”

“Of course you do,” he said, shaking his head.

She couldn’t handle a lantern as well as climb, so while she stepped gingerly onto the rail, he held the lantern and his breath.

She had to sidle along the gutter, using the roof for a handhold, until she reached the rail of the window she was interested in. Her foot, clad in the thin supple leather slippers she claimed was perfect for this, sought a solid place to land, and slipped a little. Athos’s heart jumped. He had seen Porthos do this a couple of times, but never in the rain and almost complete darkness. How could Sylvie—

She waved, her signal to say she had unlocked the window. She was only supposed to open it and look, but as he watched, heart in his mouth, she disappeared inside the building.

“Sylvie!” he hissed uselessly. Damn that woman!

He tugged gently on the rope, hoping she would get the message. But now. It slipped through his hands as she went further inside the house. There was only one [_toise_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toise) or so left to play out. She would have to return soon.

The rope jerked a couple of times but he didn’t have to let any more of it out. The rain had stopped, thankfully, and the moonlight was now as bright as it was likely to get tonight. He exhaled as he saw movement at the window, and a slender foot....

A naked foot. A _white_ naked foot. “Sylvie Boden, what are you doing?”

“What we came here to do, Athos,” he heard her whisper back. Then Lucie de Foix in her nightdress, with the rope tied around her waist, was making her tentative way along the railing and all Athos could do was reach out to help her, cursing his lover to hell and back for her recklessness.

Lucie was shaking, but she managed it almost all the way, slipping only at the last step and fortunately falling forward, not back. Athos caught her and she collapsed to the floor. “Oh God. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered, untying the rope and going back to the window to pass it to his idiot woman, only to find she was already on the rail of the window he was near, and he only had to help her in.

“You bloody fool!” he said, shaking her.

She pushed his hands away. “Stop it. I got her, didn’t I?”

“You were only supposed—”

“I don’t take orders from Jean de Tréville, or you,” she said calmly, staring at him. “We need to get out of here, and then send a message to Elodie so she can protect the general if Rochefort finds out. Come on, we can’t hang around.”

Lucie could not be allowed to walk on the filth-strewn Paris streets in bare feet, so Athos carried her, and then the guards took over in turns. De Tréville was apoplectic when he saw her.

“Are you both out of your mind?” he yelled at Sylvie and Athos as Lucie was set down safely inside his apartment.

“No,” Sylvie said coldly. “I, a royal councillor, made a considered decision that Lucie was safer with us than with her captors, and she was willing to try to escape tonight.”

“I pleaded with her to let me leave,” Lucie said. “Please, Jean, don’t be angry. I was so frightened and worried about Georges.” She fell into his arms and sobbed, and de Tréville was no more immune to the power of tears than Athos was.

Athos and Sylvie made their escape while he was comforting her, but not to the bedroom, as he thought she would want. She went to de Tréville’s desk and began scribbling a note. “I need a note taken to Elodie immediately,” she said, “and that house must be secured before the occupants discover Lucie’s gone. Can you do that with the guards we have until more arrive?”

“As you command, Mistress.”

She finished her note and sealed it, then came over to take his head between her hands so she could kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

“Me? Worried? Never.”

She smiled. “Of course you weren’t. It shouldn’t take long to bring extra men from the Palace. And it’s stopped raining.”

“Yes, what a blessing.”

“Grump.”

He grunted, only reinforcing her opinion of him. “At least let me change clothes.”

“You do that while I send this note on its way. And when you get back from the house, we can climb into a nice warm bed together.”

“I’m not sure I want to sleep with a crazy person.”

“Yes, you do.” She kissed him again and ran off to find a guard to deliver her note.


	9. Chapter 9

“Hey.”

Aramis looked up and leapt at the door to seize Porthos’s hands in his through the bars. “Porthos. How are you?”

“You’re asking me? How are _you_?”

“I’m well. I have a book and my rosary. All the comforts of home.” Aramis waved at his cell where he had a cot, a lamp, a stool, and a covered bucket. “And they even took the chains off, which was a wonderful thing. All thanks to Constance. And Mistress Elodie,” he added with a smile at Porthos’s companion.

“You’re welcome, Aramis,” Elodie said. “Not much longer, I promise.”

“He shouldn’t be in here at all,” Porthos snarled. He’d promised he’d try to keep his temper but this whole situation sucked.

“Now, now,” Aramis said. “It’s not Elodie’s fault, or even the queen’s. It’s just what has to be done.”

“Yes,” Elodie said, putting her hand on Porthos’s arm. “But it really will be over soon. We’re just putting everything together so the righteous are rewarded and the unrighteous are punished.”

“They better be,” Porthos said.

“How’s d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked.

Porthos pulled a face. “Bored and annoying.”

“Oh dear. It’s so good to see you,” he whispered, his voice gone husky.

“When we get you out of here, you ain’t never going back in a cell if I can help it.”

Aramis coughed out a laugh and quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I’m not keen on the idea myself, you understand.”

“I’ll see if I can find you another book,” Elodie said. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I mean, other than letting me out, which goes without saying. But you’ve been so kind.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, her mouth turning down. “We all feel wretched at you being here.”

“Louis? How is he?”

“He’s doing well. It’s a tremendous relief.”

“Thank God,” Aramis said, crossing himself. “And...her majesty?”

Porthos looked down at Elodie whose face had become serious again. “She will be better for knowing the truth. And that will be soon.”

“Then I put my faith in you.”

“We can’t stay long,” Porthos said. “You sure I can’t do nothing for you?”

“No, my friend. Look after d’Artagnan. Any word from Athos?”

“He’s safe and well,” Elodie said. “Everyone is.”

“Then that’s all I need.” He squeezed Porthos’s hands. “Just look after d’Artagnan.”

“It’s me who needs looking after. I’m gonna strangle the bugger if we don’t get let out soon.”

“Elodie, please don’t let my friends kill each other.”

She grinned at him. “I won’t. I’ll come again soon, Aramis. But we should go, Porthos.”

“All right.” Didn’t want to push his luck. “Stay strong, my brother.”

“You too, my friend.”

Porthos leaned forward so Aramis could rest his forehead against his, through the bars. And then Elodie tugged on his sleeve and they had to leave Aramis in that filthy cell.

“It ain’t right,” he growled at her as they walked back to her room.

“It’s not. But it will be. Have faith, darling. You only have to wait until tomorrow night.”

“Breaks my heart seeing him in there, you know. It’s not like being a soldier, risking being captured and stuff. He don’t belong in a cell.”

“I know. Are you really going to kill d’Artagnan?”

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “I just played that up for our boy down there. You know, to make him laugh.”

“Oh good. It would complicate things a bit if we had to sort out a murder as well as an attempted murder.”

“D’Artagnan’s safe, ‘less I just go crazy from being shut up in the palace all this time.”

She took his arm and grinned up at him. “Well, I might have to find something for you to do then, mightn’t I?”

****************************

D’Artagnan had to struggle not to push Constance away as she fiddled with his jacket one more time. “You act like I want to win this thing. I don’t.”

“I know,” she said.

“If I win, I can’t be with you.”

“I know.”

“Give up,” Porthos said. “She’s gonna fuss and you can’t stop her.”

“No, he can’t,” Constance said. “But I can make you hurry. Are you ready? Then come with me. And for God’s sake, whatever happens tonight, behave and stay calm.”

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan said. “That’s really helping.”

“Move, gentlemen,” she snapped and d’Artagnan already knew enough about the woman he adored not to argue with that tone.

They marched together down to the audience chamber. “I have to go to her majesty now,” she said, giving him a quick kiss. “Just wait with the other suitors until your name is called.”

“I know.”

She made a face and rushed off. “She’s a good woman, that Constance,” Porthos said.

“She’s the best,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh. “Along here.”

The guards checked them for weapons again, as if they had a hope of carrying any. The only time he’d held a sword in the last two weeks was when Elodie allowed them to spar with some of the guards she hoped might join the Musketeers. That had been fun, although his worry over Aramis and the whole situation had preyed on his mind, distracting him. He had a bandage on one arm to remind him to concentrate better in future.

The audience chamber was packed, because it was a smaller room than the Great Hall, all the suitors had brought their supporters, and there were a lot of guards. Many more guards than were needed, d’Artagnan thought, but it wasn’t his decision.

He couldn’t see Athos, which worried him. The suitors had become familiar, although he had barely spoken to more than a handful. There were hardly any left, which was strange. He thought most of those in the second round would be here, but he counted only a dozen or so. Odd.

None of the ladies in the cabinet were there yet, but they would arrive with the queen. The mood in the room was sombre. D’Artagnan hadn’t known what to expect, but not this. But with the dauphin so ill, maybe it was to be expected.

There was a sudden movement to his left, and then everyone in the room bowed as her majesty, expression grim, walked in flanked by her women, like a general followed by her lieutenants. Constance carried an ornate wooden box.

The queen sat on a golden chair on a dais. The councillors arrayed themselves around her. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. You will all be glad to hear that my son is recovering from the illness which struck him down, praise be to God for his mercy. Mistress Ninon will call your name, and you will step forward to try on the ring. Please step back once you have finished, but do not leave the room.”

She waved to Ninon, who read out a name, and the man walked forward. Constance held the box with the lid open, while Mistress Clarisse put the ring on the fourth finger of the man’s left hand.

And removed it. The man bowed and returned to the assembly.

D’Artagnan was called second. He walked up, gave Constance a nervous smile, and held out his hand. The ring was too small to fit over the second knuckle. “Too bad,” Clarisse murmured, one eyebrow raised, then she glanced sideways at Constance who beamed at him. D’Artagnan walked back feeling like a stone weight had been removed from his heart.

“Bad luck,” Porthos muttered, smiling.

“Yeah, horrible,” d’Artagnan said, still grinning like a fool. He’d never been so happy to lose a competition in his life.

The other names were called. D’Artagnan wasn’t that interested in who would win, since none of the men were people he cared about. One by one they were eliminated, until the last one remained to be called.

“Guy, _Comte_ de Rochefort.”

“Fuck me, if that bloke is the next Consort, I’m moving to England,” Porthos murmured.

“I’ll go with you.”

But as Rochefort stepped forward, a woman cried out from behind the assembly. “Halt! That man is unfit to wear the ring!”

A handsome, tall, blonde woman stepped forward, someone Rochefort clearly recognised because he went pale.

“Step forward and state your name,” Mistress Ninon called out. D’Artagnan noticed the queen was frowning, but none of the councillors looked remotely surprised.

“I am Lucie de Foix, sister to General Georges de Foix, and for three weeks I was kept prisoner by this man, to force my brother to support his suit and to promote his reputation.”

“This is all lies and nonsense,” Rochefort said, turning from Lucie to the queen. “A complete fantasy.”

General de Foix, whom d’Artagnan had seen a couple of times with Rochefort but never spoken to, came forward and dropped to one knee. “This is all true, your majesty. I would never have supported this man, for I know he is a traitor, a liar, and an abuser of women.”

“The man has gone mad,” Rochefort declaimed. “Obviously he has been bribed to spout such falsehoods.”

“Not so.” A familiar figure—no, two familiar figures—came forward and bowed to the queen.

Porthos blinked. “What the fuck?”

“My thoughts exactly,” d’Artagnan murmured back.

“Your majesty,” de Tréville said loudly, Athos at his side, “we rescued Mademoiselle de Foix two nights ago, from the house in which this man’s servants had her imprisoned as security for her brother’s support. The house is owned by the _comte_ de Rochefort, and his servants have confessed all.”

“Rochefort, approach.” D’Artagnan hadn’t imagined the queen’s voice could sound that cold and haughty. “Have you any defence against these very loyal men of the best character, who have accused you?”

Rochefort swept his hand dismissively towards de Tréville and Athos. “They are jealous of me, your majesty. You know me. You know I am no traitor.”

“Yes, you are,” Elodie said. The queen turned to her. “Bring out Marguerite de Sal.”

“What the—” D’Artagnan was completely confused.

The governess was brought out under heavy guard, in chains. She fell to the floor and wept. “Mercy, your majesty. Mercy for a woman trapped by a dreadful, evil man.”

“Get up, Marguerite,” the queen snapped.

Elodie hadn’t finished though. “Bring out Aramis d’Herblay.”

Aramis walked out from the same door. But he wasn’t under guard, or in chains. In fact, freshly shaved and in clean shirt and trousers, he looked better than he had earlier that morning when d’Artagnan had been allowed to visit him. “Your majesty,” he said, bowing.

“Why has this criminal been brought in front of me?” the queen, her mouth now very tight, and her hands in fists, said to Elodie,.

“He is no criminal at all. He’s an innocent victim of the _comte_ de Rochefort, and his cat’s paw, Marguerite. They were the ones who poisoned your son, and made it seem as if Aramis had done it.”

“It’s true, your majesty,” Clarisse said. “We found the vial which had contained the poison, crushed and scattered in Marguerite’s bedroom, in the fireplace. Elodie?”

Elodie went to Marguerite. “Your only hope is to be honest and brave now, girl. Speak, and tell the truth.”

The woman was weeping so hard, d’Artagnan could barely understand her. “It’s true. I put the mint oil in the honey, but only because that man,” she said, pointing at Rochefort, “told me it was a secret sovereign remedy. When I refused, he said he would tell you I had stolen items from the palace. Which I didn’t! I would never do that.” She collapsed to the floor again. “Please, your majesty. Forgive me. I never meant to harm Louis.”

“Guards, take the _comte_ de Rochefort into custody,” the queen said.

“Wait!” Rochefort cried. The guards stopped moving. “The ring. The ring will know if I am innocent. If it chooses me, then I cannot be guilty of such heinous things, is that not correct?”

The queen, thin-lipped with spots of colour high in her cheeks, glanced at Constance and Clarisse before answering. “Yes, that is how it works.”

He walked over to Clarisse, his hand extended. “Then try me.”

The queen nodded, and Clarisse slid the ring onto his finger. “There,” he said triumphantly, holding his hand aloft. “I am Saint Petronilla’s choice, and therefore I am innocent!”

“Not so fast,” Constance said. “Let me try and remove it.”

“No need.” He backed away. “I am the last suitor—the ring is mine!”

“Rochefort, let Constance look at your hand, or I’ll have it removed to make it convenient for her,” Clarisse said.

Constance walked over and reached for Rochefort’s hand. He held it out to her, but as she put her hand on it, he suddenly lunged, grabbing her by the wrist and dragged her against him, holding a dagger under her chin. “One move and she dies.”

The councillors all crowded around the queen to protect her. “Guards, take him!” Constance cried, disregarding how the movement forced the knifepoint against her throat.

The guards moved, and Rochefort’s gaze turned to them, giving d’Artagnan and Porthos a chance to move back and around to get behind him. With a terrifying roar, Porthos charged, while d’Artagnan dove for Constance, grabbing her arm and dragging her away from Rochefort. A pair of hands reached for her. D’Artagnan looked up and found Athos there, so he passed her back.

But Athos passed her to de Tréville, then leapt forward, tossing his hat aside, and his sword—how did he have his sword?—out, to engage a treacherous guard who was defending Rochefort against the queen’s men. Another guard rushed at Athos, but d’Artagnan swung out a leg and tripped him, and one of the men in the audience sat on him.

Two other faithless guards were fighting with their more loyal colleagues, one of whom tossed a sword at Aramis. He caught it and went to it with one of Rochefort’s defenders, disarming him in seconds and bringing the other to his knees almost as quickly. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Enough!”

The room fell silent at the queen’s shout. Rochefort was now securely held by Porthos and General de Foix, with Sylvie pointing a pistol at him.

“Constance, fetch the ring.”

Constance nudged aside the men blocking her path and stalked over to Rochefort, grasping his hand and yanking off the ring. “Guilty,” she spat at him, then walked back to where Clarisse was holding the box for her. She put the ring inside it and shut the lid.

“Remove him,” the queen said to her loyal guards. “And those other traitors.”

“Your majesty, what about Marguerite?” Elodie asked.

“Take her into custody too,” her majesty said. “I’ll deal with her later.”

Two guard dragged the sobbing governess—former governess now, d’Artagnan assumed—out of the room.

Once she was gone, the queen turned to her women. “Well. It seems I have been uninformed about certain developments. As the ring has not chosen any suitor, this—”

“Your majesty, there is one more name!” Ninon declared.

****************************

“Your majesty, there is one more name!”

There was a murmur of surprise from the assembly. Aramis looked at his friends who had all now come to his side and stood rather protectively around him, Porthos’s hand on his shoulder, and Athos at his back. Who had Ninon missed?

“Indeed,” the queen said. “Who?”

“Aramis d’Herblay, come forward.”

Aramis blinked, frozen in shock. Only a hard nudge in the back from Athos got him moving. “But I’m not—”

“You are now. Get moving,” Porthos said, adding a push to Athos’s nudge so hard Aramis nearly fell over.

So Aramis walked forward, then stopped and bowed when he reached the bottom of the dais. “Your majesty.”

“Aramis.” There was a little more warmth in Ana’s voice than the last time he’d spoken to her, but there was more confusion. “Ninon, is he eligible?”

“Yes, your majesty. He is the son of a gentleman farmer, albeit an illegitimate one, but illegitimacy is not disqualifying. He is of good character, and we have all consider him suitable for the role of Prince Consort.”

“Ah. Well then. Let him try on the ring. Constance?”

Smiling broadly, Constance opened the box, handed it to Clarisse, and brought the ring to Aramis. “Your left hand, _monsieur_.”

He held it out and she slid the ring easily onto his fourth finger.

Then she tried to remove it. It wouldn’t come. “Clarisse, care to try?”

Clarisse passed Constance the box, and gave the ring a solid yank. “No. Your majesty, Saint Petronilla has chosen Aramis d’Herblay as a candidate for Prince Consort.”

The room was in uproar. Aramis stared at the ring, then up at the queen. She walked down the steps of the dais, and he bowed low. “Aramis? Look at me.”

He straightened and found her smiling at him. “Aramis d’Herblay, you have been chosen by the ring of blessed Saint Petronilla, and now I must decide whether I will take you as husband. Before I do, tell me if you wish to marry me.”

Aramis opened and closed his mouth twice before he could answer. “Your majesty...Ana...yes. I love you and will serve you all my days, if I am allowed it, whether I marry you or not.”

She took his hand, and turned to the assembly. “Then I choose Aramis d’Herblay as my husband and consort. We will marry as soon as the banns have been read.”

De Tréville began to applaud, so Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan followed, as did the councillors, the guards, servants, and most of the suitors. Ana tugged his hand. “I believe a kiss is traditional, _monsieur_.”

He grinned, put his arm around her waist, and planted his first public, completely authorised kiss on the royal lips. “Do you love me, Ana?”

“With all my heart, and so does my son.”

“Can we visit him together soon?”

“Yes, we can.”

She signalled to Clarisse who called over two guards, and together they walked out of the audience room. It was suddenly much quieter, so he gathered his queen into his arms again. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

“Hush, darling, your majesty. You could do nothing but what you did, given the evidence.”

“I will have that man’s head on a pike.”

“I think that’s probably the best place for it. But may I plead for mercy for Marguerite?”

She frowned. “She poisoned my son and implicated you. She cannot remain in my service, and she shall be executed along with her master.”

“She can’t remain, no. But let her return to her family? She is young, and perhaps foolish, but she has devoted to Louis for years, and I honestly believe she had no intention of harming him. Please, my love? As a wedding gift?”

“You are going to be a very difficulty husband, Aramis. But as you wish.”

“Thank you, my darling.” He kissed her and she smiled. “I will not ask such a hard thing ever again, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Aramis. Now come along. We can see if Louis is well enough to be seen.”

****************************

“Well, that was unexpected,” d’Artagnan said to Constance. She had come to him as soon as Aramis and the queen left the room.

“Only to you,” she said, before she turned to Porthos. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t tell you in advance because we couldn’t risk Rochefort finding out from one of the servants, and we needed to know which of the guards were disloyal.”

“I understand,” Porthos said. He had his arm around Elodie’s shoulders. Athos was keeping a similar tight and affectionate hold on Sylvie. “Hey, this means that prophecy is true! And Athos is actually smiling, so maybe I am gonna die rich after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Elodie asked.

“Nonsense,” Athos said. “Now that the ring has chosen, is it possible I could have a glass of wine? Because after all that, I need one.”

“We all do,” de Tréville said. “Aramis as Prince Consort. Never in my wildest dreams.”

“Or my worst nightmares,” Athos murmured to Sylvie, who laughed.

“Come with me to my rooms, gentlemen,” Constance said, “and wine and bread will be delivered. Oh Clarisse, you must be pleased.” Her colleague had come up to their little group. They were fast becoming the only people left in the room, as all the other suitors and supporters were politely hustled out.

“It all went well, up until the little bastard grabbing you,” Clarisse said.

“I would have shot him if the boys hadn’t moved,” Sylvie said.

“But that would have meant we couldn’t have questioned him, and Georges,” she said, nodding to the general, holding tightly to his sister’s hand, “is sure there are things we should know about our treacherous little _comte_.”

 “Not that he’ll talk,” Constance said.

“Yes, he will. I have ways,” Clarisse said. D’Artagnan felt a shiver run up his back. “Athos, I see you have moved on. Treat Sylvie better than you did me or one morning you’ll wake up dead.”

“I’m bound to do that one morning anyway, Anne,” Athos said, not flinching from Clarisse’s hard look at all. “You don’t actually need to threaten me into treating anyone well. If you’d stayed, you would have learned that.”

“If I’d stayed, I’d be the mother of five children or dead in childbirth, bored out of my brain, and you would be on the verge of running off and playing soldiers again. I think I made the right choice.”

He bowed his head. “Then I hope you’re happy.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Constance clapped her hands. “My room. Wine. Now. Charles? Lead the way.”

He answered in words he knew he would be wise to use at every opportunity if he wanted a happy life. “Yes, Constance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anne had several loyal councillors:
> 
> The mistress of the bedchamber - Constance. She runs the palace and everything to do with it.
> 
> The mistress of the household - Sylvie. She runs the Treasury
> 
> The mistress of the guard - Clarisse (Anne de Breuil). She takes care of internal security.
> 
> The mistress of the army - Elodie. She is in charge of external security and the army.
> 
> The mistress of lettres - Samara. She’s in charge of education
> 
> The mistress of the herbals - Therese. She runs public health
> 
> The mistress of the court - Ninon. She runs the judicial system.
> 
> She also has some male advisers, among whom is Doctor Lemay. Jean, Comte de Treville, was also one once. The women form the cabinet, along with the official consort, and any other person they choose to invite.


End file.
